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Corporation 


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23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  14580 

(7; 6)  872-4503 


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CIHM/ICMH 

Microfiche 

Series. 


CIHIVI/ICMH 
Collection  de 
microfiches. 


Canadian  Institute  for  Historical  MIcroreproductions  /  Institut  Canadian  de  microreproductions  historiques 


T«chnical  and  Bibliographic  Notas/Notaa  tachniquaa  at  bibiiooraphiquas 


Tha  Instituta  haa  attamptad  to  obtain  tha  baat 
originai  copy  availabia  for  fiiming.  Faaturaa  of  this 
copy  which  may  ba  bibliographically  uniqua, 
which  may  altar  any  of  tha  imagaa  In  tha 
raproductlon,  or  which  may  significantly  chanya 
tha  usual  mathod  of  filming,  ara  chackad  balow. 


D 


D 


D 


D 


D 


Colourad  covars/ 
Couvartura  da  coulaur 


[~~1   Covars  damagad/ 


Couvartura  andommagAa 

Covars  rastorad  and/or  Irmlnatad/ 
Couvartura  rastaurAa  at/ou  pailiculAa 

Covar  titia  missing/ 

La  titra  da  couvartura  manqua 


I     I   Colourad  maps/ 


Cartas  giographiquas  an  coulaur 

Colourad  ink  (i.a.  othar  than  blua  or  black)/ 
Encra  da  coulaur  (i.a.  autra  qua  blaua  ou  noira) 


r~~|   Colourad  platas  and/or  illustrations/ 


Planchas  at/ou  illustrations  an  coulaur 

Bound  with  othar  matarlal/ 
RaiiA  avac  d'autras  documants 

Tight  binding  may  causa  shadows  or  distortion 
alonf  intarior  margin/ 

La  reliura  sarrie  paut  causar  da  I'ombra  ou  da  la 
distortion  la  long  da  la  marga  intiriaura 

Blank  laavas  addad  during  rasloratlon  may 
appaar  within  tha  taxt.  Whanavar  posslbla,  thasa 
hava  baan  omittad  from  filming/ 
II  sa  paut  qua  cartalnas  pagss  blanchas  ajouttes 
lors  d'una  restauration  apparaissant  dans  la  taxta, 
mais,  lorsqua  cala  4tait  ncssibla.  cas  pagas  n'ont 
pas  At*  filmAas. 

Additional  comments:/ 
Commantairos  supplAmantalras; 


L'Institut  a  microfilm*  la  maillaur  axamplaira 
qu'il  lui  a  Atd  poaaibia  da  sa  procurer.  Las  details 
da  cat  axamplaira  qui  sont  paut-Atra  uniquas  du 
point  da  vua  bibliographiqua.  qui  pauvant  modifier 
una  image  reproduite.  ou  qui  peuvent  exiger  une 
modification  dans  la  mAthoda  normale  de  f llmaga 
sont  IndlquAs  ci-dessous. 


|~~1   Coloured  pages/ 


D 


This  item  is  filmed  at  the  reduction  ratio  checked  below/ 

Ce  document  est  filmA  au  teux  de  reduction  indiquA  ci-dessous. 


Pagas  de  couleur 

Pages  damaged/ 
Pages  endommagAas 

Pages  restored  and/oi 

Pages  restaurAes  at/ou  pelliculAee 

Pagas  discoloured,  stained  or  foxei 
Pages  dAcolorAes,  tachetAes  ou  piquAes 

Pages  detached/ 
Pages  dAtachAas 

Showthroughy 
Transpaiance 

Quality  of  prin 

QualitA  inAgale  de  I'lmpression 

Includes  supplementary  materii 
Comprend  du  matArlel  supplAmentaire 

Only  edition  available/ 
Seule  Aditlon  disponible 


I — I  Pages  damaged/ 

I — I  Pages  restored  and/or  laminated/ 

r~2  Pages  discoloured,  stained  or  foxed/ 

I     I  Pages  detached/ 

rri  Showthrough/ 

I     I  Quality  of  print  vanes/ 

I     I  Includes  supplementary  materiel/ 

I — I  Only  edition  available/ 


The 
toti 


The 
posi 
of  tl 
film 


Orig 

begi 

the 

sion 

othe 

first 

sion 

or  ill 


Pages  wholly  or  partially  obscured  by  errata 
slips,  tissues,  etc.,  have  been  refilmed  to 
ensure  the  best  possible  image/ 
Lee  pages  totalement  ou  partiellement 
obscurcies  par  un  feuillet  d'erreta,  une  pelure, 
etc.,  ont  AtA  filmAes  A  nouveeu  de  fapon  A 
obtenir  la  meilleure  image  possible. 


The 
shall 
TINl 
whic 

IMap 
diffe 
entir 
begii 
right 
requi 
met^ 


10X 

14X 

18X 

22X 

26X 

30X 

1 

y 

12X 

lex 

20X 

24X 

28X 

32X 

The  copy  filmed  here  hes  been  reproduced  thenks 
to  the  generosity  of: 

Scott  Library, 
Yoric  Univtraity 

The  imsges  sppeering  here  ere  the  best  quelity 
possible  considering  the  condition  and  legibility 
of  the  original  copy  and  in  keeping  with  the 
filming  contract  specifications. 


L'exempiaire  film*  f ut  reproduit  grAce  A  la 
gAnArositA  de: 

Scott  Library, 
York  Univariity 

Les  imsges  suivantes  ont  At*  reproduites  evec  le 
plus  grsnd  soin,  compte  tenu  de  la  condition  at 
de  le  nettetA  de  rexemplaire  film*,  et  en 
conformity  evec  les  conditions  du  contrat  de 
filmage. 


Originel  copies  in  printed  peper  covers  are  filmed 
beginning  with  the  front  cover  and  ending  on 
the  last  page  with  a  printed  or  iiiustreted  Impres- 
sion, or  the  beck  cover  when  appropriate.  All 
other  original  copies  are  filmed  beginning  on  the 
first  page  with  a  printed  or  iiiustreted  impres- 
sion, and  ending  on  the  last  page  with  a  printed 
or  illustrated  impression. 


Les  exemplalras  originsux  dont  la  couverture  en 
papier  est  imprimte  sont  filmAs  en  commenpant 
par  le  premier  plat  et  en  terminant  soit  par  la 
dernlAre  pege  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration.  soit  par  le  second 
plet,  selon  le  ces.  Tous  les  autres  exemplalras 
originaux  sont  filmAs  en  commenpent  par  la 
premiere  pege  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'iMustration  et  en  terminant  par 
la  dernlAre  page  qui  comporte  une  telle 
empreinte. 


The  last  recorded  frame  on  each  microfiche 
shall  contain  the  symbol  — ^(meening  "CON- 
TINUED"), or  the  symbol  y  (meening  "END"), 
whichever  applies. 


Un  des  symboles  suivsnts  apparaftra  sur  la 
dernlAre  image  de  cheque  microfiche,  selon  le 
ces:  le  symbols  -^  signifie  "A  SUIVRE".  le 
symbols  V  signifie  "FIN". 


Maps,  plates,  cherts,  etc.,  may  be  filmed  at 
different  reduction  retios.  Those  too  large  to  be 
entirely  included  in  one  exposure  are  filmed 
beginning  in  the  upper  left  hand  corner,  left  to 
right  and  top  to  bottom,  as  many  framas  as 
required.  The  following  diagrams  illustrate  the 
method: 


Les  cartes,  planches,  tableaux,  etc..  peuvent  Atre 
film6s  A  des  taux  de  reduction  diffArents. 
Lorsque  le  document  est  trop  grand  pour  fttre 
reproduit  en  un  seul  clichA.  il  est  film*  A  partir 
de  I'engle  supArieur  gauche,  de  geuchft  A  droite. 
et  de  heut  en  bas,  en  prenant  le  nombre 
d'imeges  nAcessaire.  Les  diagrammes  suivants 
lllustrent  le  mAthode. 


1 

2 

3 

32X 


1 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

THE 


:^rEW   PRIEST 


1^    COXCEPTIOIS^    BAY. 


BY   THE  SAME   AUTHOR. 


ANTONY  BRADE.  A  Story  of  a  School. 
i6mo.    Cloth.     Price  ^1.75. 

"  A  book  for  boys  about  boys,  —  at  school,  at  play, 
at  home,  in  mischief,  at  work,  in  good  company,  in 
the  fields,  on  the  ice,  with  the  servants,  in  the  streets, 
in  the  church,  on  the  amateur  stage;  in  fact,  doing  just 
what  boys  do  and  saying  just  wliat  boys  say,  not  only 
in  America,  but  all  over  the  world.  A  wholesome  and 
deligiitful  story."  —  London  Bookseller. 

A  STORY  OR  TWO  FROM  AN  OLD 
DUTCH  TOWN.  I.  Abram  Van  Zandt, 
the  Man  in  the  Picture.  II.  Mr.  Scher- 
merhorn's  Marriage  and  Widowhood.  III. 
Master  Vorhagen's  Wife.  i6mo.  Cloth. 
Price  $1.25. 

"  We  have  here  three  stories,  simply  told,  but  each 
with  its  peculiar  central  figure,  and  its  separate  group- 
ing of  secondary  characters  and  incidents;  while  a  unity 
is  given  to  the  volume  by  the  old  Dutch  town  where 
the  scene  of  all  three  is  laid,  and  the  time-marks  desig- 
nating the  period  when  the  stillness  of  Dutch  life  in  the 
interior  of  New  York  was  just  beginning  to  be  disturbed 
by  the  invasions  of  Anglo-Saxon  activity  and  enter- 
prise." —  Boston  Transcript. 


ROBERTS   BROTHERS,  Publishers, 

BOSTO  N. 


THE 


NEW    PRIEST 


IN    CONCEPTION    BAY. 


BY 


ROBERT    LOWELL. 


ATXivov,  aiXivov,  eme,  to  8*  €v  vikutco. 


iESCH.  AOAMIIM. 


Woe!  woe! 
But  right,  at  last,  though  slow. 


BOSTON": 

ROBERTS    BROTHERS. 

1889. 


LU- 


Copyright,  1889, 
Bv  HoHEKTs  Bkothers. 


All  nights  Reserved. 


tlmiirtniiB  {IrtM: 
John  Wilson  and  Son,  Cambridok. 


One,  to  whom   I   owe  all,  will   He  take  this 

AT    MY   HAND,   THE   BEST    I    HAVE? 


PREFACE   TO  THE  REVISED  EDITION. 


THIS  book  was  given  out  long  ago,  without 
the  author's  name,  with  a  ihittering  of  lieart, 
but  with  a  strong  liope  of  winning  liking  and 
praise,  which  men  love.  The  beings  that  he  had 
made  were  to  the  maker  living  and  fresh,  and  of 
that  better  manhood  whose  life  —  having  more 
or  less  wealth,  knowing  more  or  knowing  less  — 
is  of  the  true  life.  Their  sea  and  sky  and  land 
and  weather,  and  their  ways,  as  he  had  drawn 
them,  he  knew  to  be  true.  Might  not,  then,  all 
be  to  others  living  and  fresh  and  true  as  to  him  ? 

The  book  was  taken  kindly  then  and  when 
republished. 

Having  been  for  years  out  of  print,  "  The  New 
Priest "  is  to  be  sent  forth  afresh  ;  and  the  au- 
thor has  gone  over  it  all,  touching  it  in  very  many 
places,  shading  and  lighting  here  and  there,  — 
making  it,  it  is  hoped,  better. 

Schenectady,  May  31,  1889. 


it 


HI 


FOREWORDS   TO   FIRST   EDITION. 


Religious  novels  there  are  many;  this  is  not  one 
of  them. 

These  Figures,  of  gentle,  simple,  sad,  and  merry, 
were  drawn  (not  in  a  Day)  upon  the  walls  of  a  House 
of  Exile.*     Will  the  great  World  care  for  them  ? 


•  A  willing  exile,  as  a  Church-missionary,  in  Newfoundland. 


<h 


CONTENTS. 


Chapter  _ 

Bkfoue  the  First.    A  Setting  op  our  Scene  ...      13 

I.     A  Rare  Intruder ^^ 

II.    Mus.  Barre  anu  Miss  Dare 24 

JII.     A  I'RiiTTY  Scene  and  its  Ureaking-up     .    .      30 

IV.    A  Walk  and  the  End  of  it 42 

V.    A   FEW  Moaifnts  of   two    Young  People's 

Lives a-j 

VI.     A  Written   Rock,  and  something  More      .      61 
VII.     True  Words  are  soMETniEs  very  Heavy  .     .      5«> 

VIII.    Skipper  George's  Story ^7 

IX.     A  Meeting ge 

X.     Some  Gossip  and  some  Real  Life    ....      94 

XI.     Two  Meet  Again 93 

XII.    A  Sad  Young  Heart jq? 

XIII.  A  Great  Loss iio 

XIV.  A  New  Man 223 

XV.    Traces  of  the  Lost iqa 

XVI.     Searching  Still 145 

XVII.    Which  Way  Suspicion  leads 154 

XVIIL     The  Day  for  Rest jgQ 

XIX.    Suspected  Persons jgg 

XX.    An    Official     Examination     from     which 

something  appears 175 

XXI.     An  Old  Smuggler jg^ 


CONTENTS. 


Chapter 
XXII. 


XXIII. 

XXIV. 

XXV. 

XXVI. 

XXVII. 

XXVIII. 

XXIX. 

XXX. 

XXXI. 

XXXII. 

XXXIII. 

XXXIV. 

XXXV. 

XXXVI. 

XXXVII. 

XXXVIII. 

XXXIX. 

XL. 

XLI. 

XLII. 

XLIII. 

XLIV. 

XLV. 

XLVI. 

XLVII. 

XLVIII. 

XLIX. 


Paob 


An  Interview  or   Two   who  hate  met 

BEFORE 197 

The  New  Priest  at  Bay-Harbor    .    .    .  202 

A  Call  at  a  Nunnery 212 

The  Magistrate  deals  with  other  Sus- 
picious Persons 227 

Mr.  Bangs  has  an  Interview  with  the 

Head  of  the  Mission 238 

Another  Relic  found 249 

Mr.  Bangs  a  Neophyte 254 

Miss  Dare's  Expedition  with  an  Escort  270 

Across  the  Barrens 282 

Miss  Fanny  Dare  Reports 291 

High  Mass 295 

The    Graveyard    makes    Strange    Meet- 
ings    304 

Mr.  Wellon  tries  to  do  Something   .    .  311 

A  Station  at  Henran's  Inn 318 

The  Tribunal  of  Penitence 323 

Father  Debree  at  Bay-Harbor  again    .  335 

Father  O'Toole's  Assistant 343 

The  three  Priests  together 351 

A  Miracle 363 

Examination 372 

A  Night's  Boat-Racb 385 

What  Father  Debree  was  told,  etc.     .  397 

The  two  Priests  and  a  third    ....  403 

Quite  another  Scene 419 

Father  Debree's  Walk  from  Bay-Har- 
bor    426 

An  Opening  into  Father  Debree's  Heart  438 

Father  De  Brie  doubts 441 

A  Stranger  approaches  Ladford   .    .    .  450 


CONTENTS.  xi 

Chapteb  Pagb 

L.  Father  De  Brie  determines,  and  departs      .  463 

LI.  The  Trial 474 

LII.  The  Last  of  Ladford 435 

LIIL  Strange  Happenings 499 

LIV.  The  Ghost  again 511 

LV.  Mrs.  Calloran's  Revelations 5I6 

LVI.  Lucy's  Home-Coming 523 

LVII.  A  Last  Interview 530 

LVIII.  Father  De  Brie  is  waited  for,  and  sought   .  548 

LIX.  The  Wife's  Meeting 558 

LX.  Father  Terence,  to  the  Last 666 

LXI.  Mrs.  Barre  afterwards 508 

LXII.  The  End  of  All 509 


THE  STORY  OF  THE  NEW   PRIEST. 


A  CHAPTER  BEFORE  THE  FIRST. 


A    SETTING   OF   OUR    SCENE. 


UP  go  the  surges  on  the  coast  of  Newfoundhird,  and 
down  again  into  the  sea.  The  huge  island  stands, 
with  its  sheer,  beetling  cliffs,  out  of  the  ocean  ;  believed, 
for  a  great  part  of  its  three  hundred  years,  to  be  a  mon- 
strous mass  of  rock  and  gravel,  almost  without  soil,  —  a 
strange  thing  from  tiie  bottom  of  the  great  deep,  lifted 
up  suddenly  into  sunshine  and  storm,  but  belonging  to 
the  watery  darkness  out  of  wliich  it  had  been  reared. 
Inland  all  was  untrodden  and  uuguessed. 

Avalon  —  a  bit  at  the  southeastern  corner,  almost  cut 
off,  and  where  most  of  the  people  have  lived,  to  be  near 
the  fish  —  is  rocky,  indeed.  The  eye  accustomed  to 
softer  scenes  finds  something  of  startling  beauty  in  its 
bold,  hard  outlines  against  the  sky.  It  has  been  the 
home  of  hardy,  faithful,  kindly  people. 

Among  these  lies  the  scene  of  our  story. 


I( 


CHAPTER  I. 


A    RARE    INTRUDER. 


jHIRTY  years  ago,  or  longer,  one  bright  day  in 
August,  the  Church  missionary,  the  Reverend  Ar- 
thur Wellon,  left  his  house  in  Peterport,  with 
strong  step,  and  swinging  his  cane ;  a  stoutly-built  Eng- 
lishman, of  good  height,  not  very  handsome,  but  open, 
kindly,  intelligent,  and  reverend-looking ;  in  dress  just 
grave  enough  and  just  enough  unlike  other  gentlemen  to 
mark  his  office  to  those  who  would  not  know  it  from  his 
face.  He  is  the  central  person,  though  not  the  chief 
actor,  in  our  story.     This  is  what  was  thought  of  him  : 

He  was  a  frank  and  kindly  man ;  straightforward, 
honest,  and,  in  a  rather  homely  way,  a  little  humorous. 
He  had  seen  something  of  the  world,  in  living  thirty 
years,  and  to  good  purpose ;  had  a  mind  large  enough 
(because  it  opened  into  his  heart)  to  take  in  more  things 
than  the  mere  habits  of  his  order  or  his  social  rank ;  and 
while  he  loved,  heartily,  the  faith  and  services  of  the 
Church,  he  had  that  common  sense  without  which  Eng- 
lish folk  would  never  have  got  and  kept  our  Common 
Prayer.  He  was  a  good  scholar,  too,  as  well  as  a  good 
parish  priest.     "  The  Pareson,"  his  people  called  him. 

When  near  his  gate,  without  turning,  he  called,  with 
mock  sternness,  "  Epictetus ! "  —  A  dog's    black  head 


16 


THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


rubbed  his  hand  softly ;  and  he  patted  and  stroked  it. 
As  thej  went  down  the  harbor  he  broke  forth,  now  and 
then,  in  a  cheery  snatch  of  (not  profane)  song. 

The  first  turn  in  the  road  brought  him  in  sight  of  two 
persons  walking  in  company  in  advance  of  him, — a  gentle- 
man of  about  his  own  age,  and  looking  like  a  clergyman, 
and  a  tuU,  large,  strongly-moulded  fisherman  of  some 
sixty  years.  The  former  seemed  to  be  listening,  rather 
than  talking,  while  his  companion  spoke  earnestly,  as 
appeared  from  his  homely  gestures. 

On  the  hill-top,  near  Bcachy  Cove,  (named  from  its 
strip  of  sand  and  shingle  edging  the  shore,)  they  stood 
still ;  and  Mr.  Wellou,  who  was  not  far  behind  them, 
could  scarcely  help  hearing  what  was  said.  The  fisher- 
man btill  spoke  ;  his  voice  and  manner  having  the  gentle- 
ness an('  modesty  almost  of  a  child.  On  one  arm  was 
hanging  a  coil  of  small  rope ;  and  in  the  hand  he  held, 
with  a  carefulness  that  never  forsook  him,  a  bright- 
colored  seaweed.  The  gentleman  listened  to  him  as  if 
he  had  the  honeyed  speech  of  Nestor.  It  was  some 
story  of  the  sea,  apparently,  that  he  was  telling,  or 
commenting  upon. 

Our  pastor  looked  curiously  toward  the  group,  as  they 
stood,  not  noticing  him ;  and  then,  after  a  momentary  hesi- 
tation, went  across  a  little  open  green,  and  into  the  enclos- 
ure of  a  plain,  modest-looking  house,  about  which  creepers 
and  shrubs  and  flowers,  here  and  tiiere,  showed  taste  and 
will  more  than  common.  Epictetus,  having  loitered  his 
little  while  near  the  talkers,  came  —  a  noble  great  black 
fellow  —  to  his  master,  here,  and  waited  at  his  side,  as  he 
stood  before  the  door,  after  knocking. 

The  parting  words  of  the  stranger,  thanking  his  com- 
panion for  his  society  in  their  walk,  and  of  the  stout  fisher- 


A  BARK  INTRUDER. 


17 


man  turning  meekly  back  the  thanks,  came  throngh  the 
still  air,  across  from  where  they  stood. 

"  It  was  very  good  of  'ee,  sir,"  said  the  latter,  "  to  come 
along  wi*  me,  and  hear  my  poor  talk. — I  wish  'ee  a  very 
good  mornin,  sir,  an'  I  '11  carry  this  bit  of  a  thing  to  my 
mjiid,*  please  God.  One  o'  the  nighbors  sen'd  it.  She 
makes  a  many  bright  things  o'  such." 

When  he  had  done  speaking,  his  strong  steps  were 
heard  as  he  wen  on  his  way,  alone ;  for  the  whole  scene 
was  as  it  had  been  for  hours,  still  and  quiet,  as  if,  in  going 
to  their  fishing,  the  people  had  left  no  life  behind  them. 
There  had  been  scarce  a  moving  thing,  (if  the  eye  sought 
one,)  save  a  light  reek  from  a  chimney,  (a  fairer  thing,  as  it 
floated  over  the  poor  man's  dwelling,  than  ducal  or  royal 
banner,)  and  a  lone  white  summer-cloud,  low  over  the  earth; 
where  the  wind,  taking  holiday  elsewhere,  left  it  to  itself. 

Finding  that  Mrs.  Barre,  for  whom  he  asked,  had 
walked  down  the  harbor  with  Miss  Dare,  Mr.  Wellon 
went  forth  again,  toward  the  road. 

At  the  top  of  the  hill,  where  he  had  stood  with  the 
fisherman,  the  stranger  was  still  standing,  now  gazing 
over  the  water,  toward  the  hills  in  the  far  southwest ;  a 
very  striking  and  interesting  looking  person  he  was.  It 
was  impossible  for  a  well-bred  man  to  go  by  without  salu- 
tation, and  the  dog  loitered.  The  stranger  returned  Mr. 
Wellon's  greeting  gracefully,  and  came  forward. 

"  This  atmosphere  becomes  the  scane  extremely  ! "  he 
said,  as  if  sure  of  speaking  to  a  kindred  taste. 

His  way  was  very  taking ;  and  there  was  a  realness 
(and  no  affectation)  in  his  speech.  He  was  fine,  too,  in 
face  and  person;  with  features  full  of  life;  a  fresh  hue; 
eyes  of  open  blue,  deep-lighted,  and  a  broad  glance. 

*  Maid  is  pronounced  myde ;  bay,  bj/e  ;  play,  plye  ;  neighbor,  nye- 


bor,  &c. 


Let  the  '  Chaucer  Society  '  mark  tliis  lastingness. 


18 


THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


A  sudden  mermaif'.  could  hardly  be  more  strange. 
Our  lone  pastor  c^M  his  eyes  over  the  landscape. 

The  summer  weather  as,  at  its  best,  it  is  there,  was 
beautiful.  The  eye  did  not  seek  shade,  as  in  other 
countries ;  and  it  seemed  almost  as  if  the  air  were  so 
bright  that  shadows  did  not  fall.  The  waves  came 
slowly  breaking  on  the  beach,  or  in  great  cool  dashes 
against  the  rocks.  One  little  clump  of  trees,  spruces 
and  firs,  tame  captives  from  the  woods,  stood  on  the  ris- 
ing ground,  not  far  away.  Ilocks  showed  themselves  on 
every  side,  breaking  out  through  the  soil,  sometimes  as 
ridges,  sometimes  in  single  masses  ;  and  beyond  the  low 
woods  which  could  be  seen  a  mile  or  two  inland,  great, 
bald,  rounded,  strange-looking  heads  of  mountain-rocks. 

"  Yes,  we've  got  our  rough  beauties,  1  suppose,"  said  the 
Parson  ;  "  a  good  ocean,  and  a  pretty  show  of  rocks." 

"  Some  handsome  rocks,  indeed,"  said  the  stranger ; 
"  those  over  on  the  other  side  of  the  Bay,  for  example, 
with  their  strong  red,  and  green,  and  white,  as  if  all  the 
colors  of  grass,  and  leaves,  and  flowers,  had  been  laid  on 
a  huge  stone  pallet,  before  painting  the  earth  with  them." 

"  Not  many  have  ever  been  laid  upon  the  land,"  said 
the  Parson  ;  "  they  all  stayed  upon  the  pallet ;  and  an 
Indian  tradition  was,  that  Newfoundland  was  the  heap 
of  rubbish  that  the  Great  Maker  threw  into  the  sea, 
after  He'd  finished  the  neighboring  continent." 

"  And  yet,"  said  the  stranger,  warmly,  "  Cormac,  the 
first  white  man  that  ever  crossed  the  Island,  brings  word 
that  there's  a  great  rich  country  there,  like  other  great 
countries!  —  But  —  for  beauty  —  sea  and  rock,  alone, 
make  plenty;  give  woods,  besides,  and  sunshine,  and 
shade,  and  passing  clouds,  and  twilight,  and  night,  and 
it's  inexhaustible.  —  Then,  too,  if  you  look  along  such 


A  RARE  INTRUDER. 


19 


cliffa  (as  on  the  other  shore)  you  know  that  many  a  little 
bay  turns  in  and  is  lost  behind  the  great  wall ;  and  that 
there  (you'll  excuse  my  Virgil) 

•  Omnis  ab  jilto 
Frangitur,  Inquc  sinus  scindit  scse  unda  rcductos.'  * 

Does  n't  the  very  heart  yearn  after  them,  as  if  it  miglit 
find  sweet  peace  in  those  far  still  retreats  ?  " 

A  glow  came  with  a  part  of  this  speech,  and  a  slight 
melancholy  touched  the  last  sentence. 

After  a  short  pause,  our  parson  said  :  — 

"You've  a  better  eye  than  mine.  I  go  up  hill  and 
down,  into  the  coves  and  across  the  water,  without 
thinking  much  more  of  sea  and  rock  than  as  places  for 
catching  or  drying  cod." 

"  I  don't  think  that,"  said  the  other.  "  Who  can  look  at 
those  mountains  yonder  coolly,  knowing  that  one  can  float 
over  their  likes,  at  Wadham  Islands,  standing  up  thou- 
sands of  feet  in  water,  as  these  in  air,  and  gaze  down  their 
dreadful  sides,  just  as  one  can  stare  up  at  these.  They'll 
be  coming  long  distances,  yet,  to  see  Newfoundland  !  " 

"  Why !  you  know  the  country ! "  said  the  Parson. 
"  May  '  say  that  at  first  I  took  you  for  a  stray  Church 
clergyman,  and  wondered  how  you  got  by  my  house  ?  " 

"  No,  I'm  not,"  said  the  stranger,  embarrassed ;  "  but 
I  ought  to  know  the  country  ;  I  grew  up  in  it." 

"  Pray  excuse  me  !  "  said  our  pastor.  "  Black  cassocks 
are  fewer  here  than  *  white  coats,'  f  and  I  jump  at  one." 

"/ought  to  apologize  for  looking  so,"  the  other  said. 
"  I  aw  a  parson  of  my  own  sort.  —  May  I  walk  with 
you  ?     I'm  for  the  Backside,  wherever  it  is." 

"I  know  every  track,"  said  the  Peterport  parson, 
"  and  will  make  you  free  of  all  for  your  company." 

*  Every  wave  from  the  deep  Is  broken,  and  fritters  itself  into  far 
inlets.  t  Young  seals. 


'  I  I 


20 


TIIK   M:W    I'UIKST. 


Tliifj  hearty  8|)otM'li  tho  8lran^'t;r  mot  lu'artily. 

♦Slust  now,"  lio  isui«l  prosciitly,  "a  |>laiil«'r  inturostcd 
ixui  ^roatly.  Ho  really  lias  a  most  toiicliiiig  way  of  tell- 
iii<;  u  i^tory,  aii«l  draws  a  ntoral  woinleriully.*' 

*' Yos,"  said  tlu!  lislu'rmairs  pastor,  "  (It'or^^ii  Harbury." 
Tlic  strani^(!r,  with  surprising  interest,  vvtuiL  on: — 

"  II(!  WHS  ;jfivin,'jj  nie  an  at^coinit  of  \\h\  wreck  of  ono 
James  Knierson,  wliieli  yon.  very  liki'Iy,  know  all  about: 
(I  can't  tell  it  as  he  told  it  me,  hut)  'the  man  was  ;j;oin;^ 
to  run  his  boat  into  a  passaj^je  iutween  a  reef  and  the 
shore,  where  nothin<j;  could  save  him  scarcely  from  de- 
struction;  all  his  worldly  wealth  was  in  her,  and  his  son; 
the  people  on  land  shouted  and  shrieked  to  him  through 
the  gale,  that  he'd  he  lost  (and  he  kmnv  the  danger  lis 
well  as  they  did)  ;  suddeidy  he  changed  his  mind  and 
went  about,  just  grazing  upon  the  very  edg(;  of  ruin,  and 
got  safe  otf ; — then,  when  all  \vas  plain  sailing,  ran  his 
boat  upon  a  rock,  made  Ji  total  wreck  of  her  and  all  that 
was  in  her,  and  he  and  his  son  wei'e  bai'ely  rescued  and 
brought  lO  life.'  After  telling  that,  with  the  simi)lest 
touches  of  language,  he  gave  me  his  moral,  in  this 
way  :  '  'Ee  see,  sir,  'e  tempted  God,  agoun  out  o'  the 
plain,  right  w'y ;  an'  so,  when  'e'd  agot  back  to  the 
w'y,  agen,  an'  thowt  'twas  all  easy,  then  God  let  un  go 
down,  and  brought  un  up  again,  athout  e'er  a  thing 
belonginff  to  un  but  *e's  life  and  'e's  son's.' — That  moral 
was  wonderfully  drawn  !  " 

While  he  was  speaking  and  Mr.  Wellon  listening,  they 
had  stopped  in  their  walk.  As  they  moved  on  again, 
the  latter  said  : — 

"  Ay,  the  people  all  count  him  more  than  a  common 
man.  He's  poor,  now,  and  hasn't  schooner  or  bout,  and 
yet  everybody  gives  him  bis  title,  '  Skipper  George,'  aa 
they  would  the  king." 


A  RARK  INTUIJOKR. 


SI 


Tlis  companion  spoko  M^uin,  rarnostly  : — 

"  Few  uum  woiiM  liiivc  druwii  tliiit  luonil,  tlioiij;li  all 
its  wisdom  is  only  scciii";  simply;  in(l«'«'(l,  most  men 
wouM  nnvrr  liavo  drawn  any;  bnL  nndonI»l('<IIy,  Skippor 
(ieor^e's  interpretation  is  the  trne  one,  '  (iod  let  him  ifo 
down,'  and  not  for  comin^jr  Itaek,  but  for  liavinjx  irone 
astray. — //<'  sttred  /it's  life.  It  was  not  easy  to  draw  that 
moral :  it  would  have  l»een  er.sy  to  say  tin;  man  mi^lit 
better  have  k(!pt  on,  while  he  was  about  it." 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Wcdion,  "that  repentance,  comin;; 
a(^ross,  would  throw  common  min<ls  oil' the  scent;  George 
liarbury  isn't  so  easily  turned  asid«'." 

The  stran<j:er  continued,  with  the  same  earnestness  as 
before,  as  if  full  of  deep,  stron;'  thought: — 

"  It  was  the  Fatk  of  the;  old  Drama  ;  and  he  follow(,'d 
it  as  nnerringly  as  tin;  Greek  tragedist.  It  needs  a  clear 
eye  to  see  how  it  conies  continually  into  our  lives." 

"  Skipper  G(!org(!  would  never  think  of  any  Fate  but  the 
Will  of  God,"  said  his  pastor,  a  little  drily,  on  his  behalf. 

"  I  mean  no  other,"  said  his  companion.  "  The  Fate  of 
the  Tragedists — socn  and  interpreted  by  a  Christian — is 
Ski[)p{!r  George's  moral.  There  might  have  been  a  more 
tragical  illustration  ;  but  the  rule  of  inter[)retation  is  the 
same.  Emerson's  wreck  was  a  s})ecial  providence  ;  but 
who  will  try  to  wrench  apart  the  link  of  iron  that  this 
downright  reasoner  has  welded  between  it  and  the  wilful- 
ness that  went  before?  The  ex[)erience  of  paganism  and 
the  Revelation  of  God  speak  to  the  same  purpose.  Horace's 

*  Raro  antecedentcm  scelestum,  Deseruit — Poena,'* 
and  the  Psalmist's  words  (in  the  English  translation), 
^  Evil  shall  hunt  the  wicked  person,  to  overthrow  him,* 

*  IIoK.  O.  III.  2.  Karcly  has  Penalty  [with  limping  foot]  let  off 
the  guilty  one  alieatl. 


r?f 


1      11 
h     !! 


I'll 


22 


THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


come  very  near  together.  To  see  the  illustration  clearly, 
in  a  special  case ;  to  assign  the  consequence,  as  in  this 
case,  to  its  true  antecedent — not  the  near,  but  the  remote 
— is  rare  wisdom ! " 

"  Oh !  yes,"  said  Mr.  Wellon,  "  only  I  keep  to  the  old 
terms :  '  providence,'  '  special  providence,'  *  visitation,' 
and  so  on.  It's  good  that  Skipper  George  isn't  a  man  to 
be  jealous  of,  or  your  admiration  might  move  me." 

The  stranger  smiled.  As  there  was  often  to  be  noticed 
in  his  voice  something  like  an  habitual  sadness,  and  as 
there  lay  sadness,  or  something  very  like  it,  in  his  eye,  so 
his  smile  was  not  quite  without  it. 

Not  answering,  unless  by  the  smile,  he  asked, 

"  Is  his  daughter  like  him  ?  " 

"  She's  a  marvel ;  only,  one  who  knows  her  does  not 
marvel :  every  thing  seems  natural  and  easy  to  her.  I 
ought  to  inquire  whether  you've  any  designs  upon  the 
family  ?  " 

"  Not  of  proselyting.  Oh !  no  :  none  of  any  sort  what- 
ever. I  had  heard  of  them  from  one  who  did  not  like 
them,  and  now  I'm  correcting  the  impression." 

As  they  passed  the  church,  in  their  walk,  the  stranger- 
clergyman  bestowed  upon  it  a  sufficient  degree  of  polite 
attention  to  satisfy  all  reasonable  requirements  (for  a 
parson  with  his  church  is  like  a  sailor  with  his  ship)  ; 
and  they  went  on,  talking  together. 

Often,  as  the  conversation  grew  animated,  they  stood 
still,  and  sometimes  were  interrupted  by  a  passing  col- 
loquy between  the  pastor  and  meiiibers  of  his  flock. 
They  talked  of  many  things  and  lands  ;  and  the  stranger's 
language  made  the  readiest  and  most  fitting  dress  for  his 
thoughts.  If  he  spoke  of  woods, — such  as  bristle  this 
land,  or  overhang  the  sultry  tropics, — his  wordf^  seemed 


A  RARE  INTRUDER. 


23 


to  rustle  with  leaves,  or  to  smell  of  the  freshness  of  the 
forest,  or  to  flicker  in  light,  and  fleck  the  earth  with  glow- 
ing shade.  The  waves  swelled  and  sparkled  in  his 
speech,  and  there  was  such  a  wealth  of  illustration,  that 
the  figures  with  which  he  set  off  what  was  thought  and 
spoken  of  seemed  to  light  down  in  bright  plumage  to  his 
hand  continually,  as  he  wanted  them.  Imagination,  which 
is  the  power  of  embodying  things  of  spirit,  and  spiritual- 
izing and  giving  life  to  material  things,  he  was  full  of. 
The  slight  sadness,  and  a  slight  noNV-and-then  withdrawal 
of  manner,  implied  that  he  was  not  altogether  taken  up 
in  what  he  spoke  or  heard. 

They  passed,  without  remembering,  the  first  and  chief 
path  leading  to  the  Backside,  and  then,  lower  down,  the 
second ;  and,  when  they  recalled  the  oversight,  Mr.  Wel- 
lon  turned  back  with  his  companion  and  put  him  in  the 
best  way,  and  they  parted  with  mutual  pleasant  words. 
Epictetus  put  himself  forward  for  a  share  in  this  demon- 
stration, and  was  caressed  in  turn. 

"  This  old  fellow  is  friendly,"  said  his  new  acquaint- 
ance ;  "  perhaps  we  shall  know  one  another  better,  some 
day." 


24 


TUE  NEW   PRIEST. 


CHAPTER  11. 

MRS.    BARr£    AVD    miss    FANNY   DARE. 

)HE  English  priest,  when  alone,  walked  fast ; 
but  he  hiid  walked  for  half  a  mile  down  the 
winding  road  before  the  fluttering  garments  of 
the  ladies  were  in  siglit,  as  they  lingered  for  the  loiter- 
ings  of  a  little  girl.  He  overtook  them  at  a  place  where 
the  hill  is  high,  at  one  side  of  the  way,  and  goes  down, 
on  the  other,  steep  and  broken,  to  the  water;  and  where, 
at  every  turn,  there  is  a  new  and  pretty  outlook  upon  the 
harbor,  or  the  bay,  or  the  picturesque  coves  along  the 
road. 

Mrs.  Barre  first  heard  his  footsteps,  and  turned  round 
with  a  nervous  haste.  Sadness,  and  thought,  and  strength, 
and  womanly  gentleness,  mingled  in  her  great  dark  eyes, 
and  pale  face,  and  made  her  very  striking  and  interesting 
in  appearance — an  effect  which  was  increased  by  her 
more  than  common  height.  No  one,  almost,  could  look 
once  upon  her,  and  be  satisfied  with  looking  once. 

Miss  Fanny  Dare  was  both  handsome  and  elegant — 
rather  paler  than  the  standard  of  English  beauty,  but  a 
fit  subject  for  one  of  those  French  '  Etudes  a  deux  cray- 
ons"  if  it  could  only  have  done  justice  to  the  life  of  her 
fine  features  and  glancing  eye,  and  wavy  chestnut  hair. 

Little  Mary  Barre,  a  sweet  child,  threw  her  arm,  like 


(U 


MRS.   BARRE  AND   MISS  FANNY  DARE. 


2;*; 


a  yoke,  around  the  great  dog's  neck,  where  it  was  almost 
hidden  in  the  long  black  locks. 

The  pastor,  like  one  used  to  feel  with  others,  spoke  to 
the  widowed  Mrs.  Barre  softly  and  slowly,  and  mostly  in  the 
Lord's  own  words,  of  her  fair  boy,  lately  dead,  and  of  her 
greater  loss,  not  long  ago,  and  of  the  hope  that  is  in  Christ. 

Miss  Dare  led  her  two  livelier  companions  on,  leaving 
our  priest  and  Mrs.  Barre  to  walk  more  slowly ;  and 
the  gentle  wind  on  shore,  and  the  silent  little  waves  in 
the  water,  going  the  same  way,  seemed  bearing  them 
company.  The  child's  voice  was  the  only  sound  that 
went  forth  freely  into  the  wide  air. 

As  the  two  slower  walkers  came  near.  Miss  Dare  in- 
vited them,  by  a  single  gesture,  to  look  from  the  spot 
where  she  had  been  standing. 

The  place  was  like  a  balcony ;  in  front  one  could  see 
down  the  shore  of  the  harbor  along  the  sea-face  of  Whit- 
monday  Hill,  and  over  more  than  one  little  settlement ; 
and  out  in  the  bay  to  Belle-Isle  and  the  South  Shore,  and 
down  towards  Cape  St.  Francis.  It  was  to  a  nearer 
prospect  that  she  pointed. 

"Isn't  she  a  dear  thing?"  she  asked,  after  allowing 
them  a  moment  to  see  the  sight,  which,  as  it  has  to  do 
with  our  story,  our  reader  shall  see,  by-and-by. 

"  Lucy  Barbury  and  little  Janie ! "  said  their  pastor, 
looking  genially  down.  "  Yes ;  if  any  thing  can  make 
good  Skipper  George's  loss,  his  daughter  may."  Mrs. 
Barre  moved  a  little  further  on,  after  looking  down,  and 
stood  apart. 

"  Don't  let  he"  see  us,"  said  the  young  lady  eagerly, 
"  or  it  will  break  up  my  scene  ;  but  must  n't  we  get  the 
school  for  her,  and  have  her  teaching,  as  she  deserves  ? 
I  want  her  off  my  hands,  before  she  knows  more  than  I 


I  i: 


26 


THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


do.  As  for  the  schoolmaster  and  mistress,  poor  things,  I 
fancy  they  look  upon  her  performances  in  learning  much 
as  the  hen  did  upon  the  duck's  taking  to  the  water,  when 
she  was  showing  him  how  to  walk." 

"  I  should  be  very  glad  of  it,"  said  Mr.  Wellon,  "  when 
she's  old  enough." 

"  Ah !  Mr.  "Wellon ;  her  head's  old  enough  inside,  if 
not  outside ;  and  what  are  you  to  do  with  her  in  two  or 
three  years'  waiting  ?  Besides,  I  want  to  see  it,  and  I 
probably  shan't  be  here  by  that  time."  (A  graver  ex- 
pression came  near  occupying  her  face  at  these  words. 
She  kept  it  out,  and  went  on  speaking.)  "  You  must  put 
the  Smallgroves  into  the  Newfoundland  Society's  school 
at  Indian  Point,  and  we'll  support  our  own  here,  and  she 
shall  teach  it."     The  worthy  priest  smiled. 

"  How  would  she  take  on  the  gravity  and  authority  of 
it  ?  "  said  he. 

"  Admirably  ;  I've  seen  her  at  it.  I  caught  her,  one 
day,  with  her  singing  class,  out  behind  the  school-house, 
on  that  stony  ground ;  about  twenty  children,  of  all 
sizes,  so  big,  and  so  big,  and  so  big,"  (graduating,  with 
her  hand,  in  the  air,)  "  practising  just  like  so  many  little 
regimental  drummer-boys,  but  all  with  their  hands  behind 
them.  Lucy's  back  was  towards  me,  and  of  course  the 
scholars'  faces  ;  and  so  forty  eyes  swung  right  round 
towards  me,  and  one  little  body  wriggled,  and  an  older 
girl  simpered,  and  Lucy  knew  that  there  must  be  a 
looker-on  ;  br.t,  like  a  little  disciplinarian,  she  brought 
them  all  straight  with  a  motion  or  two  of  her  hand,  and 
then  turned  round  and  blushed  all  over  at  my  formidable 
presence,  as  if  it  had  been  his  Reverence,  the  Parson,  or 
her  Majesty,  the  Queen." 

"  Well,  we  must  see  what  we  can  do  about  it,"  said  the 


MRS.  BARRE  AND  MISS  FANNY   DARE. 


27 


Parson,  looking  down  again  over  the  cliff.     "  And  what'a 
this  about  young  Urston  ?  " 

"And  what  makes  you  think  of  young  Urston,  just 
now,  Mr.  Wellon  ? "  asked  Miss  Dare,  reflecting,  archly, 
the  smile  with  which  the  good  man  had  uttered  his  ques- 
tion. Then,  without  waiting  for  an  answer,  she  con- 
tinued : — 

"  I  believe  the  Romish  priests,  at  Bay-Harbor,  have  a 
fancy  that  Lucy  is  our  sly  Church-emissary,  assailing 
popery  in  one  of  its  weak  points, — the  heart  of  the 
young  candidate  for  their  priesthood. — I  don't  speak 
by  authority,"  she  added,  "  I  don't  think  it  ever  came 
into  her  head." 

"Assailmg  Popery,  in  his  person  ? — Nor  I ! "  answered 
the  Parson  sententiously,  and  with  his  cane  unsettling  a 
small  stone,  which  rattled  down  the  precipice  and  took 
a  new  place  on  a  patch  of  green  earth  below.  Little 
Mary  was  cautioning  her  four-footed  friend  not  to  fall  over 
the  cliffs  and  kill  himself,  because  he  pricked  up  his  ears 
and  watched  the  falling  stone  to  the  bottom. 

"  No ;  nor  assailing  James  Urston ; "  said  Miss  Dare, 
smiling  again ;  taking,  at  the  same  time,  the  child's  hand 
into  her  own.    The  parson  also  smiled,  as  he  answered : — 

"  "Well,  if  it  hasn't  come  into  her  head,  it's  one  thing, 
certainly ; — though  the  head  is  not  the  only  womanly  or- 
gan that  plots,  I  believe. — But  seriously,  I  hope  that  girl's 
happiness  will  never  be  involved  with  any  of  them ;  very 
seldom  any  good  comes  of  it." 

"  You  put  him  quite  out  of  the  case,  as  if  it  were  not 
possible  that  his  happiness  could  be  involved,  or  as  if  it 
were  not  worth  considering.  He's  said  to  be  a  fine  young 
fellow,"  said  the  young  lady. 

"  But,  as  you  said,  he's  not  only  a  Roman  Catholic,  but 
a  candidate  for  that  priesthood." 


28 


THE  NEW   PRIEST. 


"  No !  I'm  told  the  complaint  is,  that  he's  given  up  all 
thoughts  of  tlie  pnestliood." 

"  That  leaves  him  a  Roman  Catholic,"  then  said  her 
pastor,  like  a  mathematician. 

"And  a  Roman  Catholic  can  be  converted,"  rejoined 
Miss  Dare. 

"  In  a  case  of  that  sort  it  must  be  made  sure,  before- 
hand ; — if  there  is  any  such  case," — he  answered. 

A  sigh  or  motion  of  Mrs.  Barre,  drew  their  attention 
to  her.  She  was  still  standing  apart,  as  if  to  give  free- 
dom to  the  conversation,  in  which  she  took  no  share ;  but 
she  looked  much  agitated. — Miss  Dare  proposed  to  her 
that  they  should  go  home  ;  but  she  declined.  Her  friend 
turned  to  a  new  subject. 

"  Have  you  heard  of  the  American  that  intends  setting 
himself  up  in  Peterport?"  she  asked. 

"  No,  I  haven't ; "  answered  Mr.  Wellon,  again  looking 
down  from  his  height,  and  busy  with  his  cane :  "  in  what 
capacity  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  in  a  multifarious  character, — chiefly  as  a  trader, 
I  think,  but  with  a  magic  lantern,  or  some  such  thing,  in 
reserve,  to  turn  lecturer  with,  on  occasion." 

"  No ;  I  hadn't  heard  of  him ;  but  I'm  not  sure  that  I 
haven't  escorted  in  another  new-comer  that  bodes  less 
good.  You  know  we're  to  have  a  Romish  priest  here ; 
I've  just  walked  down  with  a  clergyman  of  some  sort, 
and  very  likely,  the  very  man.  He  isn't  altogether  like 
it ;  but  I  can't  think  what  else  he  is.  He  reminded  me, 
too,  of  some  one ;  I  can't  think  whom." 

"  What  sort  of  person  is  he,  Mr.  Wellon  ?  I  never  saw 
one  of  bis  kind,"  said  Miss  Dare. 

"  Very  handsome ;  very  elegant ;  very  interesting :  with 
one  of  the  most  wonderful  tongues  I  ever  heard. — I  shall 


MRS.   BARRfe  AND   MISS  FANNY  DARE. 


2U 


have  to  look  to  my  flock : — especially  those  members  of  it 
that  feel  a  friendly  interest  in  Roman  Catholics :  Eh, 
Miss  Fanny  ?  " 

"Yes,  it  is  he!"  said  Mrs.  Barre; — "that  is  Father 
Debree." 

She  was  apparently  endeavouring  to  keep  down  a  very 
strong  excitement. 

Her  two  companions  turned  in  surprise ;  Fanny  Dare's 
lips  being  just  on  the  point  of  speaking. 

"  Why !  Do  you  know  him  ?  "  asked  the  clergyman. 

"  Yes ;  *'  she  said. — She  was  very  much  agitated.  Be- 
fore either  of  her  companions  spoke,  she  added,  "  We're 
nearly  related ;   but  religion  has  separated  us." 

The  Parson  and  Miss  Dare  may,  in  their  minds,  have 
connected  her  own  recent  coming  with  that  of  the  Romish 
priest. — There  was  an  embarrassed  pause.  Mrs.  Barre 
spoke  again : — 

"  I  must  go  home,  I  believe,"  she  said,  "  I  haven't 
learned  not  to  yield  to  my  feelings,  in  spite  of  all  my 
schooling."  She  called  her  child  to  her,  and  hurriedly 
took  leave.     Miss  Dare  did  not  stay. 

The  two  ladies  walked  up  the  road,  with  litJe  Mary ; 
the  child  persuading  her  shaggy  friend  to  go  a  few  steps 
in  her  company.  Mr.  Wellon  continued  his  walk ;  and 
the  dog,  slipping  his  head  out  from  under  Mary's  arm, 
turned  and  trotted  dignifiedly  after  his  master. 


n 


'  ii 


30 


THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


CHAPTER    m. 

A   PRETTY   SCENE   AND   ITS    BBEAKING-UP. 

I  HIS  Whitmonday  Hill,  in  Peterport,  of  which 
mention  was  made  in  the  last  chapter,  is,  on  its 
travelled  face,  steep  enough  for  a  practised  beast 
(if  there  were  such  in  Peterport)  to  slide  down,  and  on  the 
water  side,  stands  up  three  hundred  feet  and  more  of  al- 
most sheer  precipice — gravel,  and  rock,  and  patches  of 
dry  grass.  On  that  side,  at  the  bottom,  it  has  an  edging 
of  rounded  detached  rocks,  with  here  and  there  among 
them  a  bit  of  gravel  that  has  fallen  down  and  lodged. 
This  edging  stretches  along  as  debatable  ground  between 
the  hill  and  the  sea,  to  Daughter's  Dock,  (the  little  cove 
where  a  "  Seventh  Daughter  "  lives,)  and,  when  the  water 
is  high,  is  plashed  and  played  with  by  the  waves,  as  on  this 
summer's  afternoon  on  which  we  bring  the  reader  to  it. 

With  a  fine  breeze  in  from  the  eastward,  and  the  bright 
sun  shining  from  half  way  down  the  sky,  the  waters  came 
in  glad  crowds,  up  the  harbor,  and  ran  races  along  the 
cliffs.  Here  and  there  a  little  in-coming  sail  was  rising 
and  falling  smoothly  ind  silently,  as  the  loaded  punt 
floated  before  the  winu. 

The  scene,  to  a  sympathetic  eye,  was  a  pretty  one  of 
home  life  ;  but  the  prettiest  part  of  it  was  on  the  water- 
edge  of  Whitmonday  Hill.      At  the  upper  end   of  it 


A   PRETTV   SCENE  AND  ITS  BREAKTNG-Ul'.        31 


(speaking  harbor-wise,  and  meaning  towards  the  inner  part 
of  the  harbor)  stood  a  little  stage — u  rude  house  I'or  head- 
ing and  splitting  and  salting  lish — whose  open  doorway 
showed  an  inviting  shade,  of  whieh  the  moral  effect 
was  lnMghtened  by  the  sylvan  nature  of  the  house  itself, 
made  up  as  it  was  of  boughs  of  fir,  though  withered  and 
red.  A  fisherman  and  his  wife  had  just  taken  in  the 
catch  of  fish  from  a  punt  at  the  stage's  ladder,  and  a 
})retty  girl,  of  some  seventeen  years,  was  towing  the  un- 
loaded boat  along  beside  the  hill,  by  a  rope  laid  over  her 
shoulder,  while  a  little  thing  of  four  or  five  years  old,  on 
board,  was  tugging  with  an  oar  at  the  stern,  to  keep  the 
boat's  head  otf  shore. 

Tiie  older  girl  was  one  wliose  beauty  is  not  of  any 
classic  kind,  and  yet  is  beauty,  being  of  a  young  life, 
healtliy  and  strong,  but  quiet  and  deep,  to  which  features 
and  form  give  thorough  expression  and  obedience.  She 
had  a  swelling,  springy  shape,  dark,  glancing  eyes, 
cheeks  glowing  with  quick  blood,  (the  figure  and  glance 
and  glowing  cheek  all  at  their  best  with  exercise,)  while 
masses  of  jetty  hair  were  lifted  and  let  fall  by  the  wind 
from  below  the  cap,  which  she  wore  like  all  girls  in  her 
country.  Her  dress  was  different  from  the  common  only 
in  the  tastefulness  that  belongs  to  such  a  person,  and  had 
now  a  grace  more  than  ever,  as  it  waved  and  fluttered  in 
the  wind  and  partook  of  the  life  of  the  wearer.  She 
wore  a  frock  of  dark  blue,  caught  up  a  little  in  front,  and 
showing  a  white  woollen  petticoat ;  a  kerchief  of  pretty 
colors  was  tied  very  becomingly  over  her  bosom,  and  a 
bright  red  ribbon  along  the  front  of  her  cap  lay  among 
her  black  hair.  Her  shoes  and  stockings  were  rolled  up 
in  her  apron,  while  her  blue-veined  feet — not  large  nor 
small,  but  smooth  and  well-shaped — clung  to  the  uneven 


i !'!:! ' 


ill' 


83 


TIIK  NKW   I'KIKST. 


RurfjicoH  ot"  \hr.  rocks,  hihI  straiixMi  upon  tlicin,  us  sli<* 
walked  aij^jiinst  llu<  wiiul  and  spranij;  iVoiii  one,  rock  lo 
aiiolhcr;  aiul  i\uy  (lippc<l  now  aixl  liicii  in  tli(3  water,  as 
tlie  lilll<»  waves  splaslu'd  up.  Over  all,  both  Iium;  and 
li^nre.  was  a  fj;rac(^  of  innocent,  ino(lest  maidenhood. 

Notliinfj;  could  ho  |>r«'llier  or  more  pictures(pm  than 
this  little  jj^roup.  The  elder  «;irl,  who  drajj:ij;ed  the  boat, 
skirted  the  ediie  of  the  water  with  tlu!  lijihlntsss  of  one 
of  those  little  beach  birds,  that,  with  a  shadow  and  a  rv- 
llection  in  the  moist  sand  running;  alon^  bivside  it,  alter- 
nately Ibllows  and  relrejits  from  the  retreatinjj;  and 
advr,!U'ing  waves;  and  the.  little  navi<;ator,  towards  whom 
her  sister  continually  turned,  had  her  plump  little  lej^s,  in 
their  wrinkled  yarn  stockin<^s,  and  her  well-shod  I'eet  set 
apart  to  keep  her  balance,  while  her  head  was  ti|j;htly 
covered  in  a  white  cap,  and  a  kerchief  with  u  silk  frinjjfo 
wont  round  her  neck  and  down  the  back  of  her  serge 
gown,  so  that  one  could  not  but  smiU».  at  hvv  and  \wr 
work.  At  intervals  she  i>rattle(l,  and  for  longer  intervuls 
she  worked  with  all  earnest  gravity  in  silence. 

There  was  another  beauty  about  these  girls  to  those 
who  knew  them,  as  will  ai>pear  in  its  time. 

Sphish !  went  the  water  against  the  bow,  spattering 
every  thing,  and  among  other  thuigs,  the  little  white- 
capped  head  and  silk  kerchief  and  serge  gown  of  the 
sculler  at  the  stern.  Anon  a  wave  came  up  from  be- 
neath the  keel,  and,  thrusting  a  sudden  shoulder  under 
the  blade  of  her  oar,  would  lift  it  up  out  of  tlio  scull-hole 
in  spite  of  her,  and  be  off.  Then  she  would  grasp  her 
weapon  womanfuUy,  and  get  it  under  her  arm,  and  lay  it 
laboriously  into  its  place  again.  In  England  one  may 
see  the  father's  horse  going  to  stable  with  a  young  child 
on  its  back  and  another  walking  beside.    Here  they  were 


4  ■  'i 


A    VUV. 

ITY    SCKNK   AND 

ns 

UUKAKINO 

-UP. 

M 

tukii 

ir    t1l< 

)iiiiil    to   :i  Hww^  ])]: 

ICC, 

wliriT   hll(! 

WJIH 

to 

be 

Il2llll< 

■(I   Up 

lor 

llic  iii;j!;lit. 

"I'lill!     I'lill! 
For  11  mniil  ciip-rii 

11 

Out  of  tlio  ^jiviit  ( 

lOcp  8PII,  Oh! " 

cried  the  nijudrii  in  ji  mellow,  niiisica!  voitrc,  (cvidcnliy 
lor  tli(^  lilllc  one,  lor  slu*.  Iierself  liiul  her  own  fhoii;^hts, 
IK)  (lonht  ;)  sukI  hs  the  ^reat  (lee|>  sen  illiislrjited  the  son;^, 
practically,  tlm  latter  repeated,  laii;j;hiii;^,  (with  a  HoiiKi- 
what  staid  and  moderate  merriment,)  and  in  the  broken 
speech  of  a  child,  workin;^  very  hard, 

"  Oh!  wliiit  a  p)()(l  ciii)-!"!!!! 
Out  of  'ii  g'oiil  dt'op  wt'uo!  " 


and  she  was  very  near  losing  her  oar  a;^ain. 

As  th(!y  ("anu;  on  in  this  way,  the  (^Ider  sister  helping 
and  sharino;  tin;  child's  laborious  frolic,  and  at  th(3  monntnt 
looking;  back,  a  dark,  win;j;(!d  thin<jj  Hew  across  the  path. 

"•Oh!  my  s'awl,  Jjucy!"  exclaimed  the  little  one  in  a 
hopcilciss  voi('(!,  but  tu;jj<^in;^,  n(!V(!rth(d(;ss,  at  her  oar, 
while  she  looked  up  sadly  to  where  tlio  black  kerchief 
with  the  silk  fringe  whi(!h  she  chiinuid  as  a  shawl  had 
been  whirled  by  the  wind,  arul  had  cau<5ht  and  fastened 
upon  the  j)rickly  leaves  of  a  juniper  bush,  that  alone  of 
all  trees  occupied  the  steep. 

My  pooty  s'awl  you  gave  me !  "    she   cried  again, 
working  harder  than  ever  at  the  oar. 

"  I'm  sorry,  Janie,"  said  her  sister  ;  "  we'll  get  it  again, 
I  think  ; "  but  as  they  looked  up,  the  liill  was  a  sheer  steep, 
and  the  gi-avel  very  loose. 

Poor  little  Janie,  with  her  distracted  thoughts,  and 
without  the  draught  of  the  rope,  which  Lucy  held  slack- 


(( 


(1  -  ^ 


i! 


31 


TIIIC  Ni:\v  rUIKST. 


enofl  as  slic.  I'm^^civd  ovor  the  inisliup,  could  not  keep  tlie 
bout  oir,  and  it  oanie  asliore.  The  older  sif^ter  cumo  up 
to  cr/inlort  her. 

''  Janlo,  shall  I  shove  you  out  ajjain  ?  "  she  asked,  "  or 
nliall  I  jump  in  and  scull  you  round  ?  " 

licfore  the  little  j^irl  could  answer,  the  scene  which 
they  had  had  so  much  to  themselves  was  broken  hi  u[)on. 

"  Look  out,  man  !  "  was  shouted  in  a  sharp,  (juick  tone 
from  above. 

"Why,  James!"  exclaimed  Lucy,  lookin;^  up  the 
loo<e-gravelled  precipice.  There  stood,  at  the  moment, 
far  up,  a  young  man  poised  u|)on  it,  while  an  older  one 
leaned  over  the  upper  edge.  Tlu;  loose  gravel  came  rat- 
tling down  to  the  j)athvvay  of  rocks  over  which  the  maiden 
had  been  walking. 

"Jump  wide,  if  you  must !  "  the  man  at  the  top  called 
out  again,  in  the  clear,  quick  way  of  men  accustomed  to 
shipboard  work. 

In  an  instant  the  elder  sister  shoved  the  boat  forth 
toward  the  clear  water,  and  sprang  into  it,  leaving  Janie's 
oar,  which  had  floated  away ;  got  the  other  into  the  scull- 
hole,  and  worked  the  punt  out  from  the  shore. 

The  waves  came  playing,  up  to  the  rocks  that  edged 
the  precipice's  foot,  w^aiting  for  the  young  man  who  had 
no  Avay  to  go  but  downward ;  and  who,  though  we  have 
been  long,  had  not  been  able  to  stand  still  an  instant. 

Down  he  came,  like  an  avalanche  ;  the  cheaty  gravel 
giving  way  from  his  feet ;  all  the  on-lookers  breathless, 
above  and  below ;  the  cold  waves  frolicking  on  the  sur- 
face of  the  deep  sea ; — but  the  young  man  did  not  give 
himself  up  to  the  usual  fortune  of  heroines  or  heroes. 

With  a  strong  will  he  conquered  what  could  almost  be 
called  a  fall,  (so  steep  was  the  precipice  down  which  he 


A   I'KKTTY   SCENE  AND   ITS   HUEARrxr.-Iir.        i]^ 


(•Htnc,)  and  coritrolh.'d  it  as  it'  he  had  hwn  wiiij^cd.  II« 
wf'iit  down  aslant,  tiio  gravel  rattling  «lown  at  iwvry 
slight  touch  of  his  ibot  on  tin;  face  of  the  steep,  atid  ere 
one  coidd  tell  how,  he  was  three  iunidred  yanls  away,  at 
the  edge  of  the  water  on  the  little  h(;ach  heyond  the  great 
hill.  Before  he  reached  the  nx^ks  at  tlx;  further  end  he 
had  checked  himself,  and  not  even  the  shallow  waters  on 
the  sand  had  so  nuieh  as  touched  his  i\'iit. 

"  Well  done  !  "  said  the  man — a  tisherman  very  shah- 
hily  dressed — who  was  still  standing  at  the  lop  against  the 
sky.  He  saw  the  danger  at  an  end,  and  then,  turning, 
went  away.  Now,  therefore,  the  scene  without  th<i  dan- 
ger liad  only  beauty  in  it.  Tiie,  waves  ran  away  from 
the  wind,  s[)arkling  in  the  sinilight ;  a  little  sail  was  flit- 
ting over  the  farther  water ;  and  the  maiden,  whoso 
'  glancing  eye  had  followed  the  young  man's  giddy  run, 
had  a  new  color  in  her  cheek.  She  had  waited  among 
the  crowd  of  mischievous  waves  at  a  few  i'athoms'  length 
from  the  shore,  and  now  that  it  was  clear  that  he  needed 
no  help,  she  turned  again  her  little  vessel  toward  the 
land.  Midway  to  the  rocks  floated  a  straw  h;it,  half-sunk, 
which  th(;  wind  had  snatched  from  the  young  man's  head 
as  he  came  down,  and  thrown  there. 

"  Min'ter's  dog !  "  cried  little  .Tanie,  attracted  now  by  the 
approach  of  the  great  black  fellow  panting  over  the  wave- 
tops,  his  long  black  hair  floating  wide.  The  young  man 
who  had  just  taken  the  wondrous  flight  had  now  seated 
himself,  flushed  and  panting,  on  one  of  the  rocks.  As 
the  dog  neared  the  hat,  Lucjy  was  too  quick  for  him,  and 
drew  it,  drip[)ing,  into  the  boat. 

"  I'll  leave  the  oar  for  him,"  she  said ;  and  the  brave 
brute,  having  turned  up  a  kindly  face  to  her,  made  for  the 
floating  oar,  and,  seizing  it  by  the  ha-ul-part,  bore   up 


?"ff 


ll 


lir 


36 


THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


with  it  against  both  wind  and  tide  toward  the  little  beach. 
That  was  tlie  place,  also,  of  the  punt's  destination,  toward 
which  it  was  now  urged  gracefully  by  the  maiden  who 
stood  sideways  in  it,  as  men  stand  at  sculling,  and  looked 
forward  with  bright  eye  and  lips  apart  and  flowing  hair. 

A  company  of  neighbors  had  gathered  hastily  at  the 
beach,  four  or  five  in  number,  and  near  them  stood  the 
pastor ;  and  in  all  faces  were  excitement  and  curiosity. 
Before  her  boat  touched  the  sand,  Lucy  seated  herself 
upon  a  thwart  and  modestly  put  on  her  shoes.  The  per- 
former of  the  late  feat  still  sat  apart,  getting  his  breath 


agam. 


"  I  don't  see  the  man  that  staid  at  the  top  of  the  hill," 
said  the  clergyman. 

"'Twas  VViilum  Ladford,  sir;  'e  've  gone  away,  see- 
munly.  'Ee  know  'e's  very  quite,  and  keeps  to  'isself, 
mostly,"  answered  one  of  the  women  who  were  eagerly 
waiting  for  the  explanation  of  the  strange  things  that 
they  had  just  seen. 

"  Did  'e  push  un  off,  do  'ee  think,  Prude  ?  "  inquired 
one  of  the  most  eager. 

'•  Oh,  no !  what  would  'e  push  un  for  ?  Will  Ladford's 
too  sober  for  pl'y,  an  'e's  too  paceable  for  mischief." 

The  short  colloquy  was  deserted  hurriedly,  as  the  boat 
came  sliding  up  the  beach,  and  its  fa'r  sailor  leaped 
blushing  from  its  gunwale  to  the  sand.  Lucy,  first  curt- 
seying to  the  pastor,  was  bearing  the  trophy  rescued 
from  the  water,  to  its  owner,  when  little  Janie  was  in- 
stantly beset  by  two  or  three  of  the  most  enthusiastic 
inquirers  after  truth,  who  questioned  her,  half  aside,  and 
half  with  a  view  to  being  overheard. 

"Where  did  Mr.  Ur.ston  come  from,  Janie?" — "What 
was  'e  doun  there,  fust  goun  off?  " — "  Wiiat  made  un  go 


A  PRETTi'  SCENE  AND  ITS   BREAKING-UP. 


37 


down  ?  "  were  the  assaults  of  three  several  female  mmds 
at  the  subject.     Little  Janie  was  bewildered. 

"  He  couldn't  keep  his  footing,"  said  Lucy,  hearing 
and  answering,  although  she  had  no  more  niformation 
than  the  questioners  might  have  had ; — a  circumstance 
that  perhaps  did  not  occur  to  her. 

"The  road's  wide  enough  to  walk  on,  athout  aturabUn 
over,  is  n'  'e  ?  "  said  one  of  the  questioners,  in  a  kind  of 
side-speculation,  with  a  good-natured  laugh  and  pleasant 
voice. 

"  But  I  don't  think  he  tumbled  over  the  top,"  ventured 
Lucy,  again,  who  saw  the  absurdity  of  his  not  being  able 
to  keep  his  footing  on  a  highway  whose  width  reached 
the  stately  dimension  of  ten  (at  least,  eight)  feet,  statute 
measure,  and  kindly  wished  to  protect  his  reputation  from 
a  charge  of  such  preposterous  clumsiness. 

The  questioner  had  been  longer  in  the  world  than  our 
yoimg  maiden  ,  and  she  advanced  with  i^er  next  question, 
in  this  way : — 

"  Oh !  'e  was  n'  walkin  on  the  road,  was  'e  ?  but  pleas- 
urin'  down  t  e  side  ; "  and  she  looked  up  the  great  outline 
of  the  hill,  as  loose  and  gravelly  as  a  freshly-made  glacis, 
but  steeper  than  a  Dutch  roof.  The  allusion  threw  the 
company  of  women  (who  followed,  at  the  same  time,  the 
direction  of  her  eyes)  into  a  sudden  laugh ;  Lucy,  also, 
laughed  innocently,  and  looked  abashed  ,  and  Mr.  Wellon, 
who  had  not  yet  resumed  his  walk,  smiled  with  them. 

This  last  effect  of  her  wit  was  not  unobserved  by  the 
speaker,  who  turned  again  to  her  charge,  with  new  spirit, 
addressing  the  neighbor-women  : — 

"  What  do  'ee  think  'e  sid,*  to  make  un  be  in  such  a 
tarrible  hurry  io  git  down  ?     Do  'ee  think,  mubbe,  it  was 

*  saw. 


38 


TIIK  NEW  PlillvST. 


;    I 


a  fish  e  sid  ?  Could  n'  'avc  abin  he  know'd  e'er  a  bod^' 
was  a  w;dkiin  down  on  t/ie  rocks  ?  " 

But  hkc  tlic  mouse  who  gnawed  the  toils  in  which  tiie 
lion  was  inclosed,  an  unexpected  deliverer  came  to  Lucy's 
aid,  just  as,  in  pretty  confusion,  and  blushing,  she  had 
turned  to  busy  herself  about  her  little  sister,  away  from 
the  embarrassment  of  this  unexpected  and  hitherto  unde- 
tected attack.  Urston  was  just  coming  toward  her  from 
his  resting-place  upon  the  rock ;  but  it  was  little  Janie 
that  brought  the  rescue. 

*'  I  think,"  said  she,  very  gravely  and  sententiously, 
"  'e  wanteil  to  g(.'t  my  s'awl." 

"  You  funny  little  maid ! "  cried  her  elder  sister,  laughing. 

"  And'e  failed  down;"  continued  the  little  explorer  of 
causes,  to  make  her  statement  of  the  case  complete. 

•'Janie's  handkerchief  blew  up  against  the  little  tree 
on  the  hillside,  and  held  fast,"  explained  Lucy  to  the 
women,  who  had  interrupted  their  raillery,  and  with  their 
eyes  sought  further  explanation  ; — "  and  so  she  thinks  he 
was  trying  to  get  it,"  she  continued,  turning  on  him,  as 
he  came  up,  a  look  the  brighter  and  prettier  for  her  con- 
fusion, and  with  a  tone  as  if  she  were  near  thinking  that 
Janie's  was  the  true  explanation. 

Urston  did  not  look  hke  a  fisherman,  though  he  wore 
the  blue  jacket  and  trowsers ;  and  his  eye  had  evidently 
been  familiar  with  otler  things  beside:^  the  way  of  the 
wind  on  the  water,  aid  the  "  lay  "  of  the  rocky  land.  At 
the  moment,  he  still  showed  in  his  face  the  excitement  of 
his  late  adventure,  and  breathed  hard  from  the  struggle 
by  which  he  had  conquered. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  he,  looking  as  well  as  speaking, 
while  he  took  his  hat  from  the  fair  hand  that  bore  it. 
"  It  wasn't  my  fault  if  I  didn't  get  a  good  ducking,  myself." 


A  PRETTY   SCKNK  AND   ITS   1]RKAKING-Ul'.       09 

"  Why,  you  came  down  with  a  swoop,  like  a  sea-gull ! " 
said  Mr.  VVellon,  who  was  not  far  oiY;  "  how  you  ever 
managed  to  give  yourself  that  turn  in  to  the  beach,  I  don't 
know. — Your  crown  ought  to  be  made  of  something  better 
than  sti'aw,  for  a  feat  like  that." 

"  I  suppose  it's  something,  when  you've  made  a  blunder 
to  get  the  better  of  it,"  said  th  j  young  man,  modestly. 

"  That's  the  way  the  best  part  of  us  is  brought  out, 
often,"  answered  the  Parson,  drawing  a  moral,  as  men  of 
his  cloth  will ;  "  but  if  you  always  mjuiage  to  tumble 
down  as  strongly  and  siifely  as  you  did  just  now,  you  can 
take  good  care  of  yourself  in  the  world." 

The  maiden's  bashful  eye  and  cheek  and  mouth  bright- 
ened and  quickened,  with  a  sweet  unconsciousness,  at 
this  compliment ;  but  there  were  other  interested  persons, 
who  did  not  forget  themselves. 

''  Did  'ee  get  my  s'awl  ?  "  inquired  little  Janie,  as  the 
Parson  walked  away,  to  the  road. 

The  young  man  smiled,  and,  putting  his  hand  into  his 
jacket-pocket,  drew  ibrth  and  spread  before  their  eyes 
the  missing  treasure,  and  then  returned  it  to  its  owner. 
She  took  it  with  joy  (and,  no  doubt,  thankfulness)  ; 
but  her  countenance  fell,  as  she  remarked  that  "  it  was  all 
full  of  prickles  !  " 

Some  one  of  the  women  made  (in  an  undertone, 
whicJi  could  be  heard  at  some  distance)  her  comment, 
thus  : — 

"  It's  my  thought  ef  Janie  had  n'  'ad  a  sister,  'e  wouldn' 
ha'  doned  it." 

At  or  about  the  utterance  of  this  speech,  Lucy  with- 
drew, with  Janie,  along  the  path  which  she  had  been 
traversing  a  short  time  before. 

At  the  same  instant,  the  dog,  having  brought  his  charge 


i  'i 


■  > 


! 


I 

f 


40 


THE  NEW   PRIEST. 


safe  to  land  and  carried  it  np  lii;i;li  and  dry  upon  tlie 
bcadi,  and  loft  it  there,  came  back  to  perform  his  toilet 
where  he  could  have  the  society  and  receive  the  con- 
gratulations of  his  friends.  He  took  his  position  near  the 
last  speaker,  and,  with  special  precision,  spattered  her  all 
over,  from  head  to  foot.  Those  in  her  neighborhood  did 
not  quite  escape ;  and  the  gathering  dispersed,  with  good- 
natured  and  rather  noisy  precipitation. 

Epictetus,  for  his  part,  went  oft",  also,  in  search  of  the 
good  man,  his  master. 

While  Urston  busied  himself  with  the  boat,  two  women, 
walking  away  more  deliberately  than  the  rest,  said,  one 
to  another: 

'*  Ef 'e  wants  to  go  a-courtun  e'(!r  a  maid  in  Peterport, 
'e  miglit  jes  so  well  look  a'  to'ther  side  o'  the  house,  to  my 
thinkin'." 

"  Ay,  as  come  after  Skipper  Georgie's  da'ghter,"  said 
her  neighbor. 

Young  Urston's  case  was  this  :  his  father,  born  and 
bred  a  gentleman,  (as  was  said,  and  as  seemed  entirely 
likely,)  had,  as  others  like  him  have  done,  come,  young, 
to  Newfoundland,  and  become  a  planter.  He  had  mar- 
ried a  pretty  woman,  half-sister  of  Skipper  George's  wife, 
but  owing  to  dift'erence  of  religion,  (the  Urstons  being 
Roman  Catholics,)  the  two  families  had  had  little  inter- 
course. 

The  boy  grew  with  finer  instincts  and  quicker  faculties 
than  common  ;  taking,  it  seemed,  from  both  parents  ;  for 
the  mother,  also,  was  not  only  a  fair  Irishwoman,  but  one 
of  feeling  and  spirit.  She  died  early  ;  and,  while  she  was 
dying,  commended  the  fostering  of 'her  child  to  an  attached 
servant ;  and  tlie  two  parents  devoted  him,  if  he  lived,  to 
the  priesthood. 


A  ruETTY  s(;kne  and  its  lUiKA king-up. 


41 


o  woraen. 


So,  at  llu;  n^c;  of  twelve  or  tliirteen  years,  Father 
0"lV)ole  had  taken  him  into  his  own  house,  made  liim  at 
first  an  ahar-hoy,  taught  him  as  well  as  he  could,  and 
loved  him  ahundantly.  He  had  no  diUleulty  in  keeping 
the  boy's  mind  up  to  his  diMuands ;  but  alter  some  time, 
(it  must  be  owned,)  it  would  have;  nMpiired  an  effort 
which  Fatlun*  Terence  would  not  make,  to  kee|)  it  down 
to  his  limits;  for  the  boy  was  a  very  active  fellow,  in 
mind  and  body ;  and  when  he  had  gone  through  all  his 
spiritual  and  religious  exercises,  and  when  he  had  wrought 
out  all  the  work  that  his  director  could  put  before  him,  must, 
of  course,  do  something.  By  way  of  vent,  the  good  father 
connived  at  his  reading  any  solid-looking  books  which  he 
could  borrow  from  friendly  gentlemen  in  Bay-IIarbor 
(and  the  youth  did  not  fancy  any  thing  light(U'  than  his- 
tory) ;  Father  Terence,  also,  did  not  ti'ouble  himself 
about  his  pupil  s  slipping  off*,  in  a  blue  jacket,  to  go  out 
upon  the  water: — an  indtdgence  understood  to  be  an  occa- 
sional relaxation  for  the  mind. 

His  own  father  refreshed  the  learning  of  other  years, 
for  his  son's  sake,  and  taught  him  as  he  had  opportunity. 
At  seventeen  years  of  age,  the  young  candidate  was  to 
have  gone  to  France  and  Rome,  to  finish  his  preparation ; 
but  he  was  now  a  year  and  a  half  beyond  that  nge ;  for, 
just  as  he  came  to  it,  a  new  priest,  whose  learning  and 
abilities  were  very  highly  spoken  of,  replaced  the  assist- 
ant in  the  Mission  at  Bay-Harbor,  and,  getting  a  good 
many  things  into  his  hands,  got  this  young  man  away 
from  Father  Terence,  under  rule,  with  hard  penances. 
Suddenly,  Father  Nicholas  went  up  to  St.  Johns  ;  was 
away,  from  month  to  month,  for  many  months  ;  —  and,  at 
last,  young  Urston  withdrew,  and  said  "  he  should  stay 
away." 


.^-  jL 


42 


THE  l^EVV  PKIEST. 


CHAPTER  IV. 


A    WALK   AND    THE    END    OP   IT. 


^^^T  was  a  delightful  day,  soon  after,  when  Miss  Dare, 
who  was  as  much  with  Mrs.  Bane  as  at  her  Aunt's, 
Mrs.  AVoi'ner's,  where  she  was  living,  persuaded  her 
friend  to  a  walk  ;  and,  once  out,  they  kept  on,  without 
turning  or  flagging,  beyond  sweep  of  road,  hill,  cove,  pass 
in  the  rocks,  the  whole  length  of  the  harbor,  to  Mad 
Cove. 

The  two  ladies  did  not  talk  much  as  they  went,  but 
they  talked  pleasantly,  and  what  they  said  was  chiefly  of 
the  beauty  of  the  different  views,  w^hich  Fanny  pointed 
out,  on  land  and  water, — and  there  are  very  many  to  be 
seen  by  an  open  eye,  in  walking  down  that  harbor  road. 

The  nearest  house  to  the  top  of  the  slope  in  Mad  Cove, 
was  that  of  Widow  Freney,  a  Roman  Catholic,  and  one 
of  Mrs.  Barre's  pensioners  ;  the  next — a  hovel  at  a  little 
distance — was  that  of  a  man  w^ith  the  aristocratic  name 
of  Somerset,  who  was,  in  American  phrase,  the  most 
"  shiftless  "  fellow  in  the  harbor. 

The  ladies  knocked  at  Mrs.  Freney's  door,  and  the  door 
swung  open  at  tlie  first  touch. 

The  widow,  however,  seemed  surprised  at  seeing  them, 
and  confused.  The  place  had  been  tidied  up  ;  the  cliil- 
dren  washed  and  brushed  ;  and  Mrs.  Freney  wore  the 
best  dress  that  had  been  given  her,  and  a  ceremonious 


A  WALK  AND  THE  END  OF  IT. 


43 


face.  She  asked  the  ladies  to  be  seated,  less  urgently 
and  profusely  than  her  wont  was,  and  answered  with  some 
embarrassment.  One  of  her  children  was  sick. — The 
ladies  did  not  stay. 

"  Oh,  mother ! "  exclaimed  a  child,  who  had  opened 
the  door  to  let  them  pass,  "  he's  here  !  the  Praest's  here  !  " 

Miss  Dare  was  passing  out,  when,  as  the  boy  had  just 
announced,  a  gentleman  was  on  the  point  of  entering. 
Seeing  her,  he  silently  lifted  his  hat  and  drew  back. 

When  Mrs.  Barre  came,  he  started  in  extreme  astonish- 
ment, and  was  greatly — even  violently — agitated.  In  a  few 
moments,  he  so  far  recollected  himself  as  to  withdraw  his 
astonished  and  agitated  gaze  from  her,  and  turned  away. 

Mrs.  Barre's  look  was  full  of  the  intensest  feeling. 
Miss  Dare  watched  the  sudden  and  most  unlooked-tbr 
scene  in  surprised  and  agitated  silence  ;  Mrs.  Freney  and 
her  family  in  wondering  bewilderment. 

Mrs.  Barre  spoke  to  the  priest ;  her  voice  was  broken, 
and  tender,  and  moving. 

"  Shall  I  not  have  a  word  or  look  of  recognition  ?  "  she 
said. 

He  turned  about,  and  with  a  look  of  sad  doubt,  asked, 
gently,  but  very  earnestly,  "  Are  you  a  Catholic  ?  " 

She  answered  instantly,  "  Yes  !  as  I  always  was,  and 
never  really  ceased  to  be  for  a  moment." 

Perhaps  Miss  Dare  started,  but  a  glance  at  him  would 
have  assured  her  that  he  was  not  satisfied.  The  doubt 
in  his  look  had  not  grown  less ;  the  sadness  kept  its  place. 

"  No  more  ?  "  he  asked  again  ;  "  not  what  I  believed 
when  we  took  leave  of  one  another?  Not  what  you 
were  in  Lisbon  ?  " 

Mrs.  Barre,  with  a  woman's  confidence  and  directness, 
turned  to  what  must  have  been  a  common  memory  be- 
tween them : — 


1fC 


I 


il 


4i 


THE  NEW   PRIEST. 


"  No  more  than  what  I  was  when  I  was  a  happy  wife 
in  Jamaica,  and  had  a  true  and  noble  husband  and  two 
blessed  children  !     No  more,  and  the  same  !  " 

She  did  not  weep,  though  she  spoke  with  intense  feel- 
ing. He  seemed  to  feel  almost  more  strongly.  He  put 
his  hand  upon  his  forehead,  pressing  both  brows.  Neither 
seemed  to  regard  the  presence  of  witnesses  ;  yet  when 
Miss  Dare  moved,  as  if  to  withdraw,  the  priest  hastily 
begged  her  not  to  go  away ;  and  then  to  Mrs.  Barre, 
who  stood  looking  fixedly  upon  him.  he  said  sadly: — 

"  How  can  I,  then,  but  ^ay  fareioell  ?  " 

"  How  can  you  not  hear,  when  I  come  asking  ?  ** 

"  No,"  he  answered,  "  I  follow  plain  duty ;  and  not  un- 
feelingly, but  most  feelingly,  must  say  farewell !  "  and  he 
turned  and  walked  away  from  the  house,  toward  one  of  the 
knolls  of  rock  and  earth. 

"  Then  I  must  wait ! "  she  sjiid,  turning  her  look  up 
toward  the  sky,  which  did  not  hide  or  change  its  face. 
Then  Mrs.  Barre's  strength  seemed  giving  way. 

"  Come  back  into  the  house  and  sit  a  moment,"  said 
Miss  Dare,  who  had  her  arm  about  her;  "and  Mrs. 
Freney,  will  you  get  a  little  water,  please  ?  " 

Mrs.  Barre,  though  unable  to  speak,  mutely  resisted  the 
invitation  to  go  back  into  the  house,  but  persisted  in  go- 
ing, with  tottering  steps,  up  the  hill  toward  the  path,  and 
still  kept  on,  though  almost  sinking,  for  some  rods  farther, 
— until  she  had  got  within  the  pass  through  the  rocks, — 
there  she  sank  upon  a  stone. 

"  Thank  you.  Don't  be  afraid  for  me,"  she  gasped ; 
"  I  never  faint."  Then  resting  her  elbows  on  her  knees, 
she  covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  and  so  sat.  "  Oh  ! 
Fanny,"  she  said,  "  you  saw  that  he  was  one  very  near  to 
rae,  though  so  utterly  separated !  " 


A  WALK   AND   THE  END  OF   IT. 


45 


At  the  sound  of  a  hasty  step  approacliing,  she  started 
ami  looked  forth.  It  was  IMrs.  Freney  with  a  mug  of 
water. 

"  Here's  some  drink  he  bid  me  bring  'ee  ma'am,"  she 
said,  courtesying ;  "  an'  sure  I'm  very  proud  to  bring  it  to 
such  a  kind  lady  as  y*  are." 

Mrs.  Barre  thanked  her,  but  declined  the  water ;  and 
the  woman,  expressing  a  hope  •'  that  she  wouldn't  be  the 
worse  of  her  walk,"  offered  to  procure  a  punt  that 
she  might  be  rowed  back,  "  if  slie'd  plase  to  let  her 
get  it."  This  offer,  like  the  other,  was  declined,  with 
thanks. 

The  ladies  walked  back  more  silently  tiian  they  had 
come,  and  more  slowly,  Mrs.  Barre  resting  more  than 
once  by  tlie  way,  and  looking  hurriedly  backward,  often. 
At  home  she  threw  herself  down,  and  lay  long  with  her 
face  buried.  At  length  she  rose,  and  wiping  away  lier 
tears,  said  : — 

"  Ah  Fanny,  it  isn't  right  that  a  bright,  young  spirit 
like  yours  should  have  so  much  to  do  with  sorrow.  Your 
day  is  not  come  yet." 

"  You  don't  know  that,"  said  her  friend,  smiling,  and 
then  turning  away.  "  Perhaps  that  was  the  very  thing 
that  brought  me  to  you." 

Mrs.  Barre  drew  her  to  herself  and  kissed  her.  The 
tears  were  falling  down  Fanny's  cheeks  this  time. 

A  sweet  breath  of  summer  air  came  through  the  open 
window. 

"  You  brave,  dear  girl !  "  said  the  widowed  lady,  kiss- 
ing her  again. 

"  Never  mind,"  said  Fanny,  shaking  the  tears  away ; 
"  but  will  you  let  me  be  wise — though  I  haven't  had 
much  to  do  with  Roman  Catholics — and  ask  you  not  to  ex- 


tt  ,.■,{, 


I!      !  . 


'1! 


!    >»!■  I 


t 


4fi 


THE   NKW   rniEST. 


pose  yourself  to  this  Romish  priest,  even  if  he's  your  own 
brother !  Let  him  go,  won't  you  ?  You  eaii't  do  liim 
any  good,  and  he  won't  do  you  any." 

"  Nothing  can  make  me  a  Roman  Catholic ! "  said 
Mrs.  Barre,  "and  I  can't  help  having  to  do  with  him. 
I  wouldn't  for  all  this  world  lose  my  chance  !  " 

"  Ah  !  but  we  think  our  own  case  diiferent  from 
others,"  said  INIiss  Dare. 

"  If  you  knew  what  was  past,  Fanny,  you'd  trust  me 
for  what's  to  come,  under  God.  If  I  come  to  too  deep 
water,  be  sure  I'U  ask  Mr.  Welion." 


A  FEW  MOMENTS  OF  TWO   LIVES. 


47 


roi\r  own 
do  him 


;!"   saia 
r'lih  hini. 

nt    from 

trust  me 
too  deep 


CHAPTER  V. 

A.   JEW   MOMENTS    OF   TWO    YOUNG   PEOPLE'S   LIVES. 

I  WO  or  three  days  passed  before  our  young  people, 
who  separated  at  Whitmonday  Hill,  met  again. 
The  night  had  been  rainy ;  but  the  morning 
was  delightful.  An  occasional  cloud  floated,  like  a  hulk 
from  last  night's  battle,  across  the  sky ;  but  the  blue,  where 
it  appeared,  was  of  the  very  bluest ;  and  the  air  fittest  for 
breathing  and  being  glad  in.  The  high,  rocky  walls  of 
coast,  the  ridges  and  the  far-oflP  woods,  were  as  fresh  and 
clear  as  could  be ;  the  earth  was  cool  and  strong  under 
foot,  and  one  might  feel  the  wish-wash  of  the  water  where 
he  could  not  hear  it. 

Skipper  George  had  part  of  his  old  father's  garden,  on 
the  slope  below  the  ridgy  boundary  of  the  little  plain 
on  which  his  own  house  stood,  and  Skipper  George's 
daughter,  like  other  maidens  of  the  land,  was  early  busy 
i^  it,  full  of  the  morning  freshness  and  beauty  of  the  day. 
A  step  drew  near,  and  James  Urston,  coming  to  the  fence, 
wished  her  "  good  morning,"  and  lifted  his  hat,  gracefully, 
as  if  he  had  had  his  schoc  ing  somewhere  abroad. 

"  Oh,  James ! "  said  she  looking  up,  with  her  face  all 
glowing,  "you  hurt  yourself  the  other  day!" 

"  No.  I've  got  over  it  before  this ;  it  was  nothing." 
His  face,  too,  had  its  fresh  touch  of  brightness  and  spirit 
from  the  morning. 


\Vi\ 


.t  lii 


11 


ii 


r,  i! 

II 


,1 


'.  t 

'i; 


48 


THE  NKVV   PRIEST. 


"It  miujlit  Imvc  been  something,  thouj;li.  You  sliouldn't 
have  run  the  I'isk  for  sucli  a  trifle." 

"  Th(M'<»  was  no  risk  ;  and  if  tliere  had  been,  it  wasn't 
for  Htth^  Janie  only  tiiat  I  got  tiie  '  shawl.'" 

Lucy's  brigiit  eyes  perhaps  looked  brighter.  "Are  you 
going  out  on  the  water  to-day?"  she  asked,  changing  the 
subject. 

"  Yes,  To-day,  and  To-morrow,  and  To-morrow,  I  sup- 
pose ;  but  I  ho[)e,  not  always !  " 

"  Would  you  go  to  Bay- Harbor  again  ?  " 

"  Never  on  the  old  errand,  Lucy ;  I  can  liave  a  place 
in  Worner,  Grose  &  Co.'s  house ;  I  think  Miss  Dare 
must  have  spoken  about  it." 

"  Did  you  know,"  said  Lucy,  drawhig  nearer  to  the 
fence,  and  bashfully  hesitating,  "  that  she  had  spoken  to 
the  Parson  about  making  me  mistress  in  a  school?" 
The  maiden  blushed,  as  she  spoke,  and  very  prettily. 

"And  he  will ;  won't  he  ? "  said  Urston,  interestedly, 
but  rather  gravely. 

"  Oh !  I  don't  know  ;  be  told  me  that  he  might  be  able 
to  soon ;  but  I  don't  think  there's  any  place  for  me," 
she  answered,  busying  herself  with  the  garden. 

"  Yes  ;  and  more  than  that,  by  and  by  !  "  said  he,  decid- 
edly.— A  nice  ear  could  have  detected  a  little  sadness 
in  the  tone  with  which  he  said  these  words  of  happy 
augury. 

She  looked  hastily  up. 

"And  some  of  these  days  you^ll  be  a  merchant ! "  she 
said. 

"  Something,  please  God ;  something,  Lucy,  that  wants 
mind  in  it,  I  hope,  and  that  one  can  put  some  heart  in, 
too ;  something  that  will  give  one  chances  to  think,  and 
learn,  after  having  once  begun  as  I  have." 


A  FEW   MOMENTS  OF  TWO   LIVKS. 


49 


nht  be  able 


"Oil,  you'll  go  on  learning,  I'm  sure,"  she  said;  "you 
know  so  inncb,  and  you're  so  fond  of  it." 

The  morning  was  IVesli  and  clear,  the  water  bright  and 
living. 

"  You  think  a  good  deal  of  my  knowing  a  little  Latin ; 
but  only  think  of  what  other  people  know ! — this  very 
Father  Nieholas  at  liay-llarbor.  Yua  know  ten  times 
as  nmeh  that's  worth  knowing  as  I  do!" 

"  Oh !  no,"  said  the  maiden,  "  it  wasn't  the  Latin, 
only-" 

"  I  know  the  '  Hours,'  as  they  call  them,"  he  said, 
smiling,  "  and  some  of  the  '  Lives  of  Saints.' " 

"  Oh,  no  !  all  those  books  that  the  lawyer  lent  you." 

"  If  it  hadn't  been  for  those,  I  should  have  been  worse 
yet; — Father  Terence  hadn't  many; — yes,  I've  read 
enough  to  want  to  know  more; — but  the  pleasant(;st 
reading  I  ever  had  was  reading  your  English  Bible  with 
you  those  two  times." 

"Was  it,  really?"  the  maiden  asked,  with  a  glad  look, 
in  her  simplicity,  and  then  she  blushed  a  little. 

"  Yes ;  I've  got  every  word  of  what  we  read,  as  if  it 
were  written  in  my  mind  deeper  than  ever  those  North- 
men cut  their  words  in  the  rock." 

She  was  silent  a  moment,  looking  beautifully  thought- 
ful out  into  the  air ;  but  then  suddenly  recalled  herself, 
and  said, — 

"  But  they  cut  their  words  deeply,  to  stand  till  now, 
ages  after,  with  the  sun  shining  on  them,  and  the  storm 
beating  against  them,  and  the  ice  freezing  over  them, 
year  after  year, — if  they  are  there,  as  people  say." 

"There  arc  writings  in  the  rock  ;  but  I  don't  know  if 
tliere  are  any  of  the  Northmen's.  It  doesn't  matter 
much ;  no  one  sees  or  cares  for  them." 

4 


I'l 


I 


i;'!ii: 


t 


fi 


!|! 


50 


THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


"  Men  oiiglitii't  to  forget  them  ! "  she  .suld,  with  ghHten- 
ing  eyes. 

"  Poor  men  ! "  said  Urston,  in  his  turn,  "  they  lioped 
for  sometluiig  hettcr !  IJwt  hopes  arc  Iiappy  things  whiUi 
we  have  them,  and  disappointed  hope  doesn't  hurt  dead 
men.     It's  the  hving  that  feeh" 

The  young  man  said  this  as  if  he  had  begun  a  man*{^ 
life,  sueh  as  it  is,  most  often.  Perhaps  he  thought  only 
of  one  disappointment,  that  at  Hay-Ilarhor. 

Luey  was  busy  again  with  the  garden. 

By  and  by  she  asked,  "  What  do  you  think  they 
wrote?" 

"  Perhaps  only  their  names ;  perhaps  the  names  of 
some  other  people  that  they  eared  lor  at  home ;  and  the 
time  when  they  came." 

"  There  may  be  grave-stones  as  old,"  Luey  said,  "  but 
tliis  seems  stranger,  cut  by  strange  men  on  a  great  cliff 
over  the  sea ; — 1  should  like  to  look  for  it." 

"  You  know  they  say  it's  somewhere  on  the  face  of 
INIad-IIead,"  *  said  Urston ;  then  looking  towards  the 
ridge,  he  said,  "  Here  comes  my  father  !"  and  wished  her 
hastily  "  Good-bye  !  " 

*  So  it  is  believed,  in  Peterport,  of  a  certain  cliff;  and,  very  likely, 
ill  other  places,  of  other  rocks. 


."»'iL 


A  WUITTEN   KOCK,  AND  SOMETHING   MOHE.       .01 


CHAPTER  VI. 


A   WRITTEN    ROCK,   AND    OOMETIIING   MORE. 


|R.  SMALLGllOVE,  not  jealous,  had  invited 
Skipper  George's  daughter  to  come  in,  as  often 
as  siie  pleased,  to  the  school ;  and  generally  con- 
trived to  make  this  something  more  than  a  compliment, 
by  getting  her  occupied,  when  she  came,  with  teaching  the 
more  advanced  scholars,  while  Mrs.  Smallgrove  taught 
the  younger,  and  he,  with  calm  authority,  presided. 

This  day  Lucy  IJarbury  had  sought  the  scholastic  hall, 
and  there  Miss  Dare  called  for  her,  just  as  school  hours 
were  over. 

The  haunts  of  childhood  have  an  attractiveness  of  their 
own  about  them,  for  those  that  were  children  once,  and  Miss 
Dare,  as  Lucy  came  bashfully  out,  pointed,  with  a  silent 
smile,  to  the  stain  made  upon  the  door-post  by  little  hands 
holding  against  it  while  little  feet  were  lifted  to  the  height 
of  the  threshold  ;  and  read,  with  a  smile,  a  legend  traced 
with  tar  upon  a  bit  of  board  which  letmed  against  the 
school-house.  It  was  a  timely  moral  for  the  young  vota- 
ries of  science,  indicted  by  one  of  themselves,  inspired : — 

"  Yo  that  wool  larn, 
Don  fall  Estarn." 

"I'm  going  down  to  make  some  drawings,"  she  said, 
''  would  you  like  to  go.  Miss  Lucy  Barbury  ?  " 


i   ! 


pll!i 


H 


fI 


I, 


1:! 

I'll 


¥ 


m 


52 


THE  NEW   PRIEST. 


''  Yes,  if  you  please,  IMiss  Dni-e ;  if  you'd  like  me  to. 
Arc  you  going  to  Mad  Cove  ?  " 

"  No ;  1  wasn't  going  to  Mad  Cove,  but  I  will  go,  if 
you'd  like  it." 

"  I  think  that  Avriting  must  be  so  strange,  that  tliey 
sav  the  Norlhrnen  left  on  ti»e  Head  ages  ago." 

"  But  wliy,  out  of  all  the  ages,  is  it  so  interesting  to- 
day?" 

"  I  only  heard  to-day  where  it  was.  Do  you  think  it 
is  their  writing,  Miss  Dare  ?  " 

"  So  it's  thought ;  but  it  isn't  always  easy  to  make  sure 
of  sucli  things.  I  saw  an  account  of  a  stone  dug  up,  the 
other  day,  in  tlie  United  States  sonievvhere ;  and  an  In- 
dian scliolar  said  that  the  letters  were  hieroglyphics,  and 
meant  that  '  seven  sons  of  the  Black  Cloud  made  three 
hundred  of  the  W^'olfs  cubs  to  fall  like  leaves  of  the 
forest ; '  and  a  great  Oriental  scholar  read  it,  '  Here  the 
Brothers  of  the  Pilgrim  rested  by  the  graves  of  the 
dead ; '  and  he  said  it  was  a  trace  of  the  lost  tribes  of 
Ismel ;  but  a  scholar  in  the  Scandinavian  langujiges,  of 
Sweden  and  D(3iunai'k,  said  it  was  a  relic  of  the  North- 
men, "\\ho  went  from  those  countri(>s  and  discovered 
North  America ;  and  that  it  meant,  '  In  the  rolling 
fields  we  make  our  home  that  used  to  have  a  home 
on  the  rolling  waves.'  And  there  it  is,  you  see.  This 
writing  on  our  rock  is  also  said  to  be  by  those  North- 
men." 

"And  it  may  be  by  Captain  Cook,  who  set  up  the 
stones  at  Sandy-Harbor,"  said  Lucy,  smiling. 

"  Yes ;  it  may  be,"  said  Miss  Dare,  assenting  to  the 
possibility  suggested. 

"  But  it  may  be  by  those  men,"  said  Lucy  again,  return- 
ing to  the  other  possibility. 


A  WPJTTEN  ROCK,  AND   SOMETHING  MORE.       53 


like  me  to. 


"Certainly,"  answered  I\Iiss  Dare,  assenting  again; 
"  and  it  may  he  by  the  Lost  Tribes." 

Lucy  kindled  as  if*  a  spirit  of  the  old  time  came  over 
her.  Ilcr  eyes  swelled  and  brightened,  and  she  grew 
pale. 

"  If  it  were,  they  ought  not  to  leave  it  hanging  out 
there  over  the  sea;  but  I  suppose  they'd  be  afraid  to 
move  it,''  said  she.  "And  if  it  were  those  Northern  men 
had  written  there,  I  should  almost  be  afraid  to  look  at  it 
so  long  after  they  were  gone  ;  it  would  be  almost  as  if 
they  had  come  back  again  to  do  it ;  but  they  did  some- 
times write  simple  little  things  like  a  man's  name,  didn't 
they,  Miss  Dare?" 

"  That's  bvioii  a  trick  of  the  whole  race  of  men  in  all 
ages;  writing  their  own  names  and  other  people's,"  said 
Miss  Dare,  "  on  walls,  and  trees,  and  rocks." 

It  took  them  a  good  half-hour — though  they  walked 
well — to  get  to  the  mysterious  rock,  over  Whitmonday 
Hill  and  by  Frank's  Cove  and  lesser  neighborhoods ;  but 
pleasant  talking  about  many  a  pleasant  thing,  and  frequent 
greetings  to  the  neighbors,  as  they  passed,  perhaps  made 
the  time  short. 

By  and  by  they  stood  on  Mad-Head ;  the  fresh  wind 
blowing  in  from  the  bay ;  the  great  waves  rushing  up 
and  falling  back  far  down  below  them  ;  the  boundless 
ocean  opening  forth,  beyond  Bacaloue  Island  ;  this  cruel 
sea  close  at  hand  being  of  the  same  nature  as  that  with- 
out, only  a  little  tamed.  They  both  stood,  at  first,  without 
speaking.  At  length  Miss  Dare  recalled  the  object  of 
their  visit,  and  said, — 

"  Now,  Lucy,  use  your  eyes,  please ;  and  see  which  is 
this  famous  stone.  1  am  rather  impatient  now  we're  so 
near  it." 


N        \i.:i 


54 


THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


Ilil 


'!:!  i 


'  I 


Lucy,  too,  was  quite  excited. 

"  This  is  the  very  rock,  I  think,"  said  she ;  and  she 
threw  herself  upon  the  ground,  and  holding  by  an  up- 
standing point  of  the  rock,  and  by  its  edge,  leaned  over, 
bodily,  and  looked  down  the  hollowing  face  of  the  huge 
cliff.  Steady  as  a  girl  of  her  life  was,  in  eye  and  hand, 
she  did  this  with  the  same  composure  with  which  she 
would  have  leaned  over  her  father's  fence.  Miss  Dare 
threw  back  her  bonnet  and  let  the  wind  do  what  it  would 
with  her  hair,  while  she  got  down  upon  her  knees  and 
looked  over  also. 

These  two  pairs  of  bright  eyes  had  looked  some  time 
when  they  began  to  make  out  something  like  letters  on  the 
great  grained  and  wrinkled  and  riven  surface,  and  about 
an  arm's  length  down,  and  yet  so  hidden  by  the  over' 
browing  of  the  rock,  as  not  to  be  seen  without  stretching 
far  over.  Fearlessly,  and  full  of  interest,  they  leaned 
over  in  turn ;  each,  also,  In  turn,  holding  the  other. 

"  If  it  should  be  Greek  or  Hebrew,  it  will  be  too  much 
for  me  :  Roman,  or  old  English,  or  German  Text,  I  fancy 
we  may  make  out,"  said  Miss  Dare.  "  Stay  !  I  was  reading 
upsidedown,  like  those  inscriptions  in  the  Desert.  —  I'll 
begin  at  my  end  ; " — and  she  began  drawing.  "  That  looks 
as  if  it  would  come  out  like  the  old  Black  Letter,  or 
German  Text." 

"  James  Urston  might  have  read  it  if  he'd  only  looked ; 
he  writes  German  Text  beautifully,  and  knows  all  kinds 
of  writing  I  suppose,"  said  Lucy. 

"  Perhaps  James  Urston  never  heard  of  it,"  suggested 
Miss  Dare. 

"  Oh  !  I  forgot !  he  told  me  where  they  said  it  was,  but 
I  don't  think  he  had  seen  it,"  said  Lucy. 

"  Ah  ? — Well,"  Miss  Dare  continued,  keeping  to  her 


itiil 


A   WRITTEN  ROCK,  AND   SOMETHING  MORE. 


5o 


work,  "  if  we  turn  that  upside  down  it  looks  like  *  IL/ 
certainly;  doesn't  it?  We  must  allow  a  little  for  the 
difficulty  of  cutting,  and  a  little  for  difference  of  writing, 
and  a  little  for  age.  Why,  if  it  all  goes  as  well  as  this, 
we  shall  make  a  noise  with  it  in  the  world.  Now  you  get 
the  next,  please  ; — very  likely  a  date ! "  added  Miss  Dare, 
in  line  spirits.  "  There  must  have  been  a  letter  before  it, 
bat  there's  no  trace  of  one  now." 

"  Here  are  two  out  here  bv  themselves,  Miss  Dare ! " 
said  Lucy,  who  had  been  looking  over  at  another  place, 
while  the  drawing  was  made,  and  who  was  excited  with 
her  discovery.     "  They're  very  plain :  '  I-V.'  " 

"  What  can  that  be  ?  "  said  Miss  Dare.  "  Four  ?  Four 
what  ?  '  I-V.'  it  certainly  is,"  she  said,  after  taking  her 
turn  in  looking  over.  "  Well,  we  can't  make  any  thing 
more  of  it  just  now.  There  are  n:  other  letters  anywhere 
along.     Let  us  go  back  to  our  first  work." 

The  next  letter  they  pronounced  "  U,"  after  getting  its 
likeness  on  the  paper. 

"  That's  no  date,"  said  Miss  Dare  again  :  '"  11  ?  '  "— 

" '  0,' "  suggested  Lucy  Barbury  ;  "  it  may  be  a  prayer." 

"  Well  thought  again  !  So  it  may  be  !  Let's  see, — 
what's  the  next  ? — '  r ! '  Good  !  But  stay  :  this'll  take 
down  the  age  of  our  inscription,  mightily,  if  we  make  that 
English.  That  other  letter  's  '  U/  depend  upon  it.  '  2L- 
U=C=' — some  sort  of  Scandinavian  name — and — '  J)  ! ' 
'  |]Lttt|).'  That  looks  pretty  well  and  sounds  pretty  well. 
Why,  that's  a  grand  old  Norse  name  !  '  Lury  ! '  It  sounds 
like  Ruric,  the  Russian  conqueror,  and  'fury,'  and 
'  LURID.'     That's  an  old  Viking." 

"  How  strange ! "  said  the  pretty  fisher's  daughter, 
thoughtfully,  "  that  one  name,  of  all,  should  be  there  ;  and 
just  the  name  makes  us  think  of  a  particular  man,  and 


11 


I    i 


IK'! 
Ill' 


M  It 

; 


III:  I 

.1!' 


'il 


I'll 


% 


56 


THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


how  he  looked,  and  care  something  about  him — doesn't  it? 
He  was  the  commander,  I  suppose." 

Miss  Dare,  full  of  eager  discovery,  was  bending  over, 
in  her  turn.  It  was  slow  work,  stretching  over,  looking 
carefully,  and  copying  a  little  at  a  time. 

"  We  shall  have  more  trouble  about  the  next  word," 
said  she,  "  for  that  won't  be  a  name  ;  tliey  only  had  one 
name  in  those  days.  It  may  be  '  somebody's  son,'  though  ; 
yes,  it  may  be  a  name." 

"  And,  perhaps,"  said  Lucy,  smiling,  (for  they  really 
had  but  a  mere  thread  of  conjecture  to  walk  upon,  across 
a  boundless  depth,)  "  perhaps  this  is  no  man's  name.  It 
may  mean  something." 

"  We  haven't  got  that  third  letter  exactly,  after  all," 
said  Miss  Dare,  comparing  and  correcting.  "  It's  '  C,'  not 
'  t*'     It  doesn't  make  a  man's  name  now,  certainly." 

"  There's  a  Saint  Lucy  in  the  Prayer-Book,  I'm  sur  /' 
said  her  namesake.  "  I  suppose  tliey  landed  on  her  day, 
just  as  they  did  at  St.  John's,  and  St.  George's,  and  St. 
Mary's,  and  the  rest." 

"  This  is  a  Lucy  that  hasn't  been  canonized  yet,  for 
there's  nothing  before  her  name ;  and  I've  got  a  key  to 
the  other,  so  that  it  doesn't  give  me  as  much  trouble  as  I 
expected.     I  believe  it  does  '  mean  something.' " 

Lucy  Barbury  leaned  over  the  rock  again  in  silence, 
but  presently  drew  herself  up  as  silently ;  and  as  Miss 
Dnre  looked  at  her  with  a  smile,  she  said,  (and  no  pencil 
could  have  given  the  prettiness  of  the  blushing  cheek,  and 
drooping  lid,  and  head  half  held  up,) — 

"  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  what  it  is." 

"But  I  do,"  said  Miss  Dare:  "' JJ=:a=:t=:ftsU=r=S*' 
That's  more  familiar  than  one  of  those  hard  old  Norse 
names,  isn't  it  ?     It  seems  to  be  a  woman's  name  ;  but  it 


A  WUITTEN  KOCK,  AND  SOMETHING  MORE.       57 


makijs  you  '  think  of  a  particular  man,'  perhaps,  as  you 
said,  'and  how  he  looked,  and  care  something  about 
him?'" 

"Oh!  Miss  Dare,"  said  Lucy,  quite  overcome  with 
confusion,  "  I  didn't  know  it  was  there." 

"  Nor  I ;  but  since  it's  there,  somebody  put  it  there ; 
and  somebody  that  understands  German  Text.  But  I 
was  only  in  fun,  Lucy.  Don't  mind  it.  You  didn't  cut 
it." 

Lucy  would  not  have  minded  it,  perhaps,  if  she  had  cut 
it  herself 

"  I'm  afraid  somebody  '11  see  it,"  she  said. 

There  was,  indeed,  more  than  one  body  (female — and, 
indeed,  an  old  man  too, — )  hastily  getting  up  along  the 
cliff's  edge,  looking  over,  all  the  way  along.  Few  people 
were  in  the  Cove  at  the  time,  and  the  greater  part  of 
the  few  had  been  busy;  but  still  the  long  sitting,  and 
above  all,  the  strange  doings  up  at  Mad-Head,  had  not 
been  unobserved,  and  at  length  it  was  impossible  for  the 
beholders  to  keep  away. 

"  I  don't  believe  they'll  see  it,"  said  Miss  Dare,  as  they 
came  near,  "  and  if  they  were  to  they  wouldn't  make  much 
out  of  it ;  not  many  of  the  women  understand  German 
Text.  There  are  those  Roman  letters,  beyond,  that  could 
be  made  out  more  easily ;  but  there  again,  unless  they 
were  pretty  familiar  with  such  things,  they  wouldn't  be 
the  wiser." 

"  I  wond(5r  what  they  mean,"  said  Lucy,  who,  after  the 
revelation  of  the  Black  Letter,  might  be  glad  of  a  safe 
subject  for  speculation. 

"  I  fancy  that  they  might  be  interpreted  by  one  who 
'  understands  all  kinds  of  writing,' "  said  Miss  Dare,  with 
a  smile, — but  speaking  so  that  the  approaching  neighbors 


If  /"' 

h 

h 

11     ' 

'"^'' 

i 


I 


1  i   :'U 

1  1  'IM 

!      1  li 

1      ' '' 
I      Ml 

i  1'^ 

1           ,  ! 
r      '     ;  !' 

i     '1 

'1     '  !' 
,    1     [1; 
■      1      Ml 

'i  I  1 1( 

1 1| 

►  .li-  i 

il'iili 


58 


THE  NEW   PRIEST. 


should  not  hear, — "but  I  and  J  used  to  be  the  same  letter 
and  so  did  V  and  U." 

Lucy  bluslied  more  deeply  than  ever  at  the  intelligence 
that  lurked  in  tliis  sentence. 

"  Oh !  don't  tell  them,  Miss  Dare,  please,"  said  she. 

"  Did  'ee  loss  any  thing,  Miss  ?  "  said  the  foremost  of  the 
advancing  inquirers. 

"  Yes ;  I'm  afraid  we've  lost  our  time ;  haven't  we, 
Lucy?'" 

"I  thought,  mubb'e  'ee  may  h-^ve  alossed  something 
down  the  rocks." 

"  No  ;  we  were  looking  for  the  old  writing,  you  know, 
that  they  say  is  cut  in.  Lucy  here,  had  read  about  such 
things  and  she  was  very  anxious  to  see  one." 

As  Miss  Dare  said  this,  she  looked  gravely  at  her  com- 
panion, but  tliat  pretty  maiden  was,  or  seemed,  altogether 
taken  up,  with  the  tie  of  one  of  her  shoes. 

"  Did  'ee  find  'un,"  inquired  another  of  the  curious,  as 
all  their  eyes  wandered  from  one  explorer  to  the  other. 

"  No ;  we  found  some  marks,  but  they  don't  look  like 
old  letters. — How  do  the  fish  go  to-day  ?  " 

"  They'm  ruther  sca'ce  Miss,  but  the  bait's  plenty." 

As  Miss  Dare  and  her  scholar  went  home,  they  said 
nothing  more  to  each  other  of  their  discovery.  The 
neighbors,  dispersing  slowly,  wondered  "  what  made  young 
Lucy  Barbury  look  so  frustrated  like,"  and  concluded 
that  it  war  because  of  her  not  being  "  so  sbirp  about 
they  things  as  Miss  Dare,  and  Low  could  shu  ?  " 


TRUE  WORDS  ARE  SOMETIMES   VERY    HEAVY.      59 


CHAPTER  VIL 


TRUE    WORDS   ARE    SOMETIMES    VERT   HEAVY. 


ARLY  next  morning,  whoever  passed  along  that 
part  of  the  harbor,  might  have  seen  young  Urs- 
ton  standing  under  the  Cross-way-Flake,  which 
covers  with  thick  shade  a  part  of  the  road  beyond  Mar- 
chants'  Cove,  and  the  approach  to  the  old  unpainted  house, 
in  which,  with  his  youngest  son  and  family,  lived  the  pa- 
triarch of  his  name,  old  Isaac  Barhury,  and  his  old  wife. 

From  where  the  young  man  stood,  the  fair  blue  heavens 
without,  seemcid  like  smooth  walls  rising  about  the  earth, 
over  the  top  of  which  inclosure  had  now  begun  to  pour, 
and  by  and  by  would  come  in  a  flood,  sweeping  away  the 
airy  walls, — the  fresh  and  glorious  day. 

Steps  drcAv  near,  on  the  top  of  the  flake,  and  the 
young  man  left  his  standing-place  and  went  forth.  It  was 
a  handsome  woman,  of  middle  age,  who  stood  above,  with 
some  fish  which  she  was  preparing  to  spread,  and  whom 
ho  saluted  respectfully,  giving  her  the  title  of  "  Aunt." 

She  returned  his  salutation  kindly,  but  distantly  i  and, 
as  he  lingered  still  in  silence,  addressed  him  again,  while 
she  continued  her  work. 

She  asked,  "  Have  you  given  up  being  a  priest,  Mr. 
Urston?" 

"  Yes !  "  he  answered,  in  a  single  word,  looking  before 
liira,  as  it  were  along  his  coming  life,  like  a  quoit-caster, 


9  i 


It 


"« 


I   :i 


i\ 


n  II  III 


'I  m 


60 


THK  NEW   PRIEST. 


to  see  how  far  tlie  uttered  word  would  strike  ;  tlicn,  tiirii' 
ing  to  licr,  and  in  u  lower  voice,  }i(I(le<l,  "  I've  left  that, 
once  find  foniver. — But  why  must  1  be  so  strange,  that 
you  call  me  '  INIr.  Urston  ? '  " 

She  looked  at  him  searchingly,  without  speaking,  fie 
kept  his  eyes  fixed  u|)on  her,  as  if  exju'ctiug  her  to  say 
more ;  but  as  slu;  turned  to  her  work  again  in  silence,  he 
said — "  I'm  a  fisherman,  just  now  ;  I  may  be  something 
else,  but  it  won't  be  a  priest." 

•' James  Urston  !  "  she  said,  abruptly  as  before.  "Do 
you  know  you're  trifiiiig  with  the  very  life?" 

The  young  man  started.  "  I  don't  understand,"  said 
he  ;  "  do  you  blame  me  for  not  being  a  priest  ?  " 

No;  I'm  glad  of  it:  but  what  is  there  between  you 
and  my  daughter  Lucy  ?" 

The  young  heart,  as  if  it  had  been  touched  in  its  pri- 
vacy, threw  a  quick  rush  of  blood  up  into  James  Urston'a 
face.  "  Nothing,"  he  answered,  much  hke  a  lover  ;  being 
confused  by  her  suddenness. 

"  There  ought  to  be  nothing,  and  nothing  there  must 
be! — I've  told  her,  and  I  tell  you,  Mr.  James  Urston, 
you  must  not  meet  any  more." 

"  But  why  ?  "  he  asked,  not  I'ecovered  from  his  confu- 
sion. 

"  You  can  see,  easily,"  said  Mrs.  Barbury.  "  I  needn't 
tell  you  why." 

Is  there  any  thing  so  hard,  or  that  goes  in  so  deep,  as 
air  made  into  words  ? 

"  No,  I  don't  see,"  he  said.  "  I  see  how  different  she 
is  from  any  one  else." 

How  could  he  let  himself  see  that  wall,  so  suddenly 
built  up,  but  so  surely  ? — It  was  not,  yesterday. 

"  I  know  she  is,"  said  the  mother,  "  and  I  thank  God 


TRUE   VVOIIDS   AUE   SUMKIIAIKS    VKllV    IIKAVY.     Gl 


for  it ;  lie  mado  her  ho  :  but  luiv  fecliuj^s  iwa  like  otlnfr 
jR'ople's,  only  they  may  go  dec^iJur. — Tlicy  i.  aii't  be  trilled 
with." 

"How  could  I  trifle  with  her?"  he  asked,  Avannly. 
"Trifling  i.s  not  ray  character, — with  man  or  woman  !  " 
Tiiere  was  a  strength  in  this  self-as>ertion,  in  which  every 
fi'ature  took  part  with  the  voice,  that  nmst  have  impressed 
Mrs.  Barbnry. 

"  I  believe  you  don't  mean  wrong,"  she  said  ;  "  and 
that  makes  it  easier  to  speak  plain  to  you.  I  haven't 
language  like  yours,  but  1  can  say  the  truth.  I'm  her 
mother,  and  must  answer  to  God  for  what  care  I  take  of 
her.  It  would  be  wrong  for  me  to  hit  you  go  on,  and  for 
you  to  go  on,  against  my  forbidding." 

The  young  man's  face  was  flushed.  Happily,  no  one 
but  Mrs.  l>arl)ury  was  near;  and  hap[)ily,  and  rather 
strangely,  no  one  else  was  drawing  near. 

"If  you  forbid  it,  it's  wrong;  I  don't  know  what  else 
should  make  it  wrong,"  he  said. 

"  Difference  of  religion,  James  Urston,"  she  said,  slowly 
and  gravely, — "  as  you  must  know  yourself.  I  wouldn't 
be  unkind ;  but  it  can't  be  helped." — It  was  plain  that 
she  was  thoroughly  resolved. 

He  answered  bitterly  : — 

"  If  you  dont  blame  me  for  not  being  a  priest,  you'll 
take  good  care  that  I  never  come  any  further.  There 
mightn't  always  be  a  difference  of  religion." 

INIrs.  Barbury  looked  steadily  at  him,  and  severely ; 
she  said : — 

"  I  didn't  think  you'd  given  up  being  a  priest  for  any 
woman — " 

Urston  did  not  restrain  himself,  but  broke  in  upon  her 
speech : — 


62 


THE  NEW   THIRST. 


i»1 


I'; 


m 


'■■iM 


"I  never  gave  up  the  priesthood  for  any  thing  but  con« 
Beienee !  because  I  must  be  a  hypocrite,  if  I  kept  on.  1 
can't  believe  every  tiling,  like  good  old   Father  Terence  ; 

and  I  can't  be  a  villain,  like "  (he  did  not  give  the 

name.) 

She  answered  : — 

"  You  speak  (piite  another  way,  when  you  say  that  I 
ought  to  risk  my  daughter  for  the  chance  of  making  you 
a  Protestant !     I've  no  right  to  sell  my  daughter's  pduI  !  " 

Again  the  young  man  took  fire.  "  We  needn't  speak 
of  trathcking  in  souls,"  he  said,  "  I'm  sure  nothing  would 
buy  her's,  and  I  wouldn't  sell  mine, — even  for  Lucy  Bar- 
bury." 

"  Then  do  right ! "  said  the  simple  reasoner  who  was 
talking  with  him.  "  You  can't  be  any  thing  to  each 
other!" 

Gentle  as  her  face  and  voice  were,  the  sentence  was 
not  to  be  changed.  It  is  not  only  in  drowning,  that  the 
whole  life  past, — ay,  and  the  future's  hope, — meet  in  an 
instant's  consciousness,  as  a  drop  reflects  the  firmament ; 
ibr,  in  any  crisis  which  has  power  to  quicken  every  fac- 
ulty to  its  utmost,  all  that  is  past  comes  with  a  sudder 
sadness,  and  all  that  might  have  been  ;  while,  at  the  same 
pulse,  comes  the  feeling,  that,  between  past  and  future, 
we  are  losing  hold  and  slipping  down,  forever;  quitting 
the  results  of  what  is  gone,  and  the  opportunity  of  what 
was  to  come.  "Whoever  has  had  the  experience  of  love 
discovered  in  his  heart,  only  that  it  may  be  chased  and 
killed,  may  know  what  Urston  felt. 

"  You  can't  help  what  she  has  been  to  me,"  he  said, 
sadly.  "  Y'^ou  can't  take  away  the  memory,  at  least.  You 
can't  take  away  noble  thoughts  she's  given  me.  Y'"ou  can 
take  away  what  might  have  been,  yet," — he  added,  bit- 


viin: 


TRUK   WOIinS  ARE  SOMFTIMKS   VKRY   MKAVY.     CI] 


r  who  was 


(crly,  as  wt'll  as  sadly,  "it's  luinl  for  a  young  man  to 
Iiavt!  to  look  back  lor  Ills  lia[)[)ino>s,  instead  of  forward  I 
I  didn't  think  it  was  to  ho  my  caso  !  " 

No  man  living,  and  certainly  no  woman,  could  help 
jceling  with  him.  IMrs.  IJarhury  and  he  were  still  alone 
togctluu*.     She  spoke  (and  gently)  : — 

"  Happiness  isn't  what  we're  to  seek  for  ;  but  it  comes 
after  doing  what's  right. — It  isn't  always  easy  to  do  right," 
she  said. 

"  Not  so  easy  as  to  tell  others  to  do  it,"  he  answered, 
bitterly,  still. 

"  And  yet,  it  is  to  be  done  ;  and  mnuy  have  done  as 
hard  things,"  said  INFrs.  Barbury,  "and  even  were  the 
better  for  it,  afterwards." 

"  When  it  takes  away  the  very  best  of  life,  at  the 
beginning" .     The  young  man  gave  way  to  his  feel- 


•o 


inirs  for  a  moment,  and  his  voice  broke. 

"  We  may  live  through  it,  and  be  the  better  for  it,"  she 
said. 

"  Take  away  the  best  of  life,  and  what  is  left  ? "  he 
asked,  with  his  broken  voice,  which  had  been  wSO  strong 
and  manly  only  a  little  while  before.  "  Or  break  the 
heart,  and  what's  the  man,  afterwards  ?  " 

Mrs.  Barbury's  answer  was  ready,  as  if  the  question 
had  come  to  her  years  ago. 

"  A  '  broken  heart '  is  the  very  thing  that  God  asks 
for ;  and  if  it  will  do  for  Him,  it  may  do  for  this  ^v'orld," 
she  said.  "  I  know  what  a  woman  can  do,  James,  when 
she  must,  and  I  think  a  man  should  do  as  much." 

"  How  do  you  know  ?  "  he  asked.  "  Not  by  your  own 
feeling  ! " 

"  Yes,  by  my  own  feeling  !  " 

The  young   man  looked  up  at  the  fair,  kindly  face, 


fr; 


iHM 


%M 


iili! 


64 


THE  N^W  TRIEST. 


which,  in  familiarity  with  the  free  air,  had  given  away 
some  of  its  softness,  but  had  it's  wide,  clear  eye  un- 
changed, and  gentle  mouth. 

We,  young,  are  often  bewildered  by  a  glimpse  of  the 
unpublished  history  of  some  one  of  our  elders  :  (for  the 
best  of  these  are  unwritten,  and  we  sometimes  catch  a 
glance  at  them.) — Ah !  covetousness,  or  low  ambition,  or 
earnest  drudgery,  as  well  as  hatred  of  mankind,  or  mad- 
ness, or  too  early  death,  has  taken  many  a  one  that  led 
another  life,  up  to  a  certain  time ;  and  then  it  was  broken 
olT! 

So,  too,  a  happy  peacefulness  and  quiet  strength  have 
taken  place,  like  sunshine,  and  a  new,  green  growth,  in 
many  a  heart  where  the  fierce  tempest  had  laid  waste. 
It  may  have  been  so  with  Skipper  George's  wife. 

"  Vou'd  never  know  from  the  water,  when  it  lays 
smooth  in  the  sun,"  she  said,  presently,  "  what  storms  it 
had  been  in,  outside. — I  was  as  young  as  you  or  Lucy, 
once." 

She  smiled,  and  it  seemed  almost  as  if  her  young  self, 
fair  and  happy,  came,  at  a  call,  up  within  her,  and  looked 
out  at  her  eyes  and  glowed  behind  her  cheek.  Urston 
could  not  help  listening. 

"  I  was  brought  up  in  England,  you  know,  from  a 
child,  in  Mrs.  Grose's  fomily.  I  was  a  play-fellow  with 
the  ch'ldren,  and  then  maid. — One  time,  I  found  I  was 
GfoinGT  to  be  wretched,  if  I  didn't  take  care,  for  the  sake 
of  one  that  M'^asn't  for  me ;  and  so  I  went  into  my  room, 
and  didn't  come  the  first  time  I  was  called ;  but  when  I 
did,  I  was  as  strong  as  I  am  now." 

"  You  weren't  in  love  !  "  said  Urston. 

"  I  wasn't,  afterwards :  but  I  was  much  like  you, 
before — only,  I  wasn't  a  man." 


i« 


I  Pi 
,1' 


TRUE   WORDS   ARE  SOMETIMES   VERY   HEAVY. 


05 


She  was  as  calm  and  strong  in  telling  her  little  story, 
as  if  it  had  not  once  touched  her  very  life.  So  the  boat 
swims,  full-sailed  and  fearless,  over  the  rock,  on  which, 
one  day,  at  half-tide,  it  had  struck. 

"  Not  every  one  can  go  through,  so  easily,"  said  the 
young  man,  moodily. 

"  James  Urston  !  "  said  she,  looking  steadily  in  his  face, 
"you're  a  man,  and  women's  feelings  are  not  the  easiest 
to  get  over." 

"  Well,  I  can't  stay  here,"  said  he,  looking  out  sea- 
ward, as  so  many  young  lovers  have  done,  before  and 
since  ;  some  of  whom  have  gone  forth  wanderer;?,  accord- 
ing to  their  A'ord,  and  helped  to  fill  the  breath  of  the 
Northeast  Wind  with  this  long  wailing  that  we  hear,  and 
some  of  whom  have  overcome  or  been  overcome  by  hard 
things  at  home. 

"  Take  it  manfully,"  said  the  woman,  "  and  you'll  con- 
quer it." 

He  pi'essed  his  lips  together,  shook  his  head  once,  with 
a  gesture  of  anguish,  and  then,  straightening  himself  and 
throwing  back  his  head,  walked  up  the  harbor. 

**  35s  ist  cfnc  elite  <5escl)fcine, 
ainU  flcftt  "Xkiits  ©losses  trabei ; 
IDocl)  iuem  es  eben  pnssivet 
I3em  bvicljt  tJas  %]zx}  eutjtDci."  * 

It's  only  an  old,  old  story, 

That  there  goes  but  little  to  make : 

Yet  to  whomso  it  happens, 

His  heart  in  two  must  break. 

So  sings,  most  touchingly,  the   German  poet,  of  love 


*  Jl^fnc. 


5 


1 


i 


i      1.1 


:. 


(■I  !'■ 


I 

nil 

!    i 


lil| 
i!i|; 


i";l 


ill 


6Q 


THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


with  cruel  scorn  tossed  back.  He  sang  out  of  a  heart 
that  knew  what  was  tlie  dreadful  crush,  and  dizzying,  de- 
stroying backset  of  the  life's  flood,  when  its  so  many  chan- 
nels, torn  from  their  fastenings  in  another  s  being,  lie 
huddled  upon  themselves. 

A  little  further  up  the  road,  there  is  on  the  left  hand, 
where  the  hill  goes  down — rocky,  and  soddy,  and  stony — 
to  the  beach,  a  little  stream,  that  loiters  (as  it  leaves  the 
bosom  of  the  earth  and  comes  out  into  the  air,)  just  long 
enough  to  fill  up  a  hollow  with  its  clear,  cool  water, 
and  then  goes  gurgling  on  its  short  way  to  the  salt  sea. 
There  is  no  superstition  in  the  regard  the  neighbors  have 
for  this  spring ;  but  everybody  knows  the  place,  and  some 
have  tender  memories  connected  with  it,  from  gatherings 
of  lads  and  maids  about  it  in  the  clear  summer  evenings. 
Har-pool,  (or  Hare-pool,)  they  call  it. 

If  James  had  thought  of  this  association,  (perhaps  he 
did,)  it  would  have  given  another  touch,  still,  to  his  sad- 
ness, to  remind  liimself  of  it  at  the  spot ;  but  he  crossed 
over,  and  went  down  to  it,  and,  where  the  streamlet  fell 
out  of  its  basin,  caught  the  cool  water  in  his  hand,  and 
bathed  his  brow,  and  drank. 

His  side  was  toward  the  sun,  that  came  along,  as  he 
does,  in  his  strong  way,  not  hindered  by  our  unreadiness. 
The  young  man's  shadow,  long  and  large,  was  thrown 
upon  the  hill-side.  Another  shadow  joined  it.  He 
turned  hastily,  and  saw  the  old  parisli-clerk,  Mr.  William- 
son coming.  He  went  out  into  the  road ;  met  him,  ex- 
changing salutations ;  passed  under  the  Cross  way-Flake, 
and  down  the  harbor. 


.ill 


ill 


SKIPPER  GEORGE. 


67 


CHAPTER  VIIL 


SKIPPER  George's  story. 


I N  the  evening  of  that  dny,  which  had  b^Ben  beautiful 
to  the  end,  Skipper  George's  daughter  seemed  more 
full  of  life  than  ever.  In  the  last  hour  of  daylight 
Bhe  had  given  her  lesson  to  her  little  sister,  who  was  no 
great  proficient  at  learning,  and  who  was,  by  degrees, 
(like  some  other  children,  with  other  words,)  getting  broken 
of  making  "  c-o-d  "  spell  "  fish."  She  tripped  across  the 
even  ground  in  front  of  the  house,  to  meet  her  father,  with 
a  lighter  step  than  usual,  and  was  busier  than  ever  within 
doors.  When  supper  was  over,  and  after  the  three- 
wicked  lamp  in  the  chimney  was  lighted,  she  read,  out 
of  a  book  that  Miss  Dare  had  lent  her,  a  story  of  an 
ancient  mariner,  and  his  strange  voyage  ;  while  the  mother 
knitted  a  pair  of  woollen  leggings  for  her  husband,  and  the 
stout  fisher  sat  upriglit,  with  Janie  on  his  knee,  sometimes 
looking  at  his  daugliter  as  she  read,  and  sometimes  looking, 
musingly,  into  the  fire,  where  the  round  bake-pot  stood, 
covered  with  its  blazing  "  splits,"  and  tinkled  quietly  to 
itself. 

George  Barbury  was  a  large,  strong-bodied  man,  more 
than  six  feet  in  height,  with  a  broad  chest,  and  every  way 
a  pattern  of  a  stout,  healthy  fisherman.  His  rusty  clothes, 
— jacket,  and  ve.;t,  and  trowsers, — patched  evenly  and 
cleanly  at  the  knees   and   elbows,  luid  a  manly  look  ;   so 


/-fill; 


II 


(' 


i 


! 


!         i 


111! 


u 


S 


I  ;!<:;:: 


68 


THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


had  his  shoes,  with  tlieir  twine-tiea,  and  his  strong,  thick- 
ribbed  stockings,  and  thick  woollen  shirt,  and  plain  black 
'kerchief  round  his  neck ;  but,  above  all,  that  weather- 
beaten  face  of  his,  with  grizzled  whiskers  half-way  down, 
and  the  kind,  simple  eyes,  that  looked  out  over  all  at  one, 
and  the  bald  head,  with  grizzled,  curling  locks,  of  those  that 
always  look  as  if  they  never  grew  beyond  a  certnin  length 
and  never  needed  cutting.  All  this  great,  massive  head 
and  kindly  face  were  open  now,  for,  in  deference  to  the 
reading,*  he  sat  uncovered.  The  little  girl  had  listened, 
at  first,  with  great  interest,  to  the  wondrous  rhyme,  but 
was  soon  asleep,  with  one  arm  stretched  at  length  over 
her  father's,  with  the  little,  busy  hand  at  rest,  having 
dropped  the  chip  which,  at  first,  had  illustrated  the  story ; 
one  wing  of  her  cap  was  pushed  up  from  her  chubby  face, 
and  one  stout  little  leg  was  thrust  forth,  so  as  to  show  a 
shoe  studded  with  nail-heads  all  around  the  sole. 

The  daughter,  by  natural  gift  of  God  and  happy  growth, 
was,  in  some  ways,  a  different  being  from  her  parents. 
Much  beauty  of  outward  things,  much  beauty  of  inward 
thoughts  and  an  ideal  world, — with  its  sky  above,  and 
earth  and  boundless  sea  below, — which  lies  in  the  mind 
of  every  speaking  or  mute  poet,  as  the  old  Platonists  sup- 
posed it  to  lie  in  the  divine  mind ; — these  things  this  girl 
saw,  and  her  parents  saw  not ;  even  her  mother,  only 
partly.  In  the  vision  of  these,  the  daughter  w^as  beyond 
the  one ;  apart  from  the  other.  But  "in  how  much  more 
had  she  deep  sympatliy  with  them  and  kindred  to  them, 
because  she  had  lost  nothing  while  she  had  gained  so 
much !  All  human  heartvS  and  minds  that  have  not 
quenched  that  'ight  of  Christ  "  that  lighteth  every  man 
that  Cometh   into  tlie  world,"  can  know  and  feel  truth, 

*  Their  readings  iire  generally  from  the  Bible  and  Pruycr-book. 


SKIPPER  GEORGE. 


69 


lieartiness,  manliness,  womanliness,  childlikeness,  at  sight, 
much  or  a  little ;  and  the  con.scienco  which  Lucy  brought 
to  judge  of  higlKT  things  and  things  farther,  was  the  self- 
same that  the  rest  of  them  a])plied  to  lower  and  neai 
things.  Some  sentences  of  false  religion  she  quietly 
ciianged  in  reading,  and  only  si)oke  of  them  when  all  was 
done. 

Tiie  fisherman  approved  the  painting  of  the  icebergs, 
and  the  bending  over,  and  pitching  and  swaying  of  the 
ship,  and  the  shaking  of  the  sails,  and  the  dropping  down 

"Below  the  kirk,  below  the  hill, 
Below  tlu  ight-house  top," 

and  the  mother  approved  the  moral  that  bade  us  love  all 
things,  both  great  and  small,  after  that  more  than  once 
the  tears  had  come  to  her  eyes  as  she  sat  knitting ;  and 
Lucy's  voice,  as  gentle  and  musical,  and  clear  as  the  gur- 
gle of  a  brook  that  the  rain  has  filled,  would  sometimes 
run  fuller,  and  sometimes  break,  and  sometimes  cease  to 
be  heard  for  a  while,  and  she  would  sit  and  gaze  at  the 
burning  lamp  or  the  fire,  or  up  through  the  Avide  chimney 
at  the  starry  sky  ;  and  they  all  thought  that  the  words 
about  the  silent  sea,  and  the  wondrous  harmonies  made 
by  the  blessed  spirits  through  the  sailors'  bodies,  were  ex- 
ceeding beautiful.  And  after  it  was  done,  the  father  and 
mother,  and  the  bright  girl, — who  had  so  many  more,  and 
so  much  fairer,  fancies  than  they, — all  agreed  in  this  judg- 
ment :  that  no  man  had  a  right  to  bring  false  religion,  or 
a  lie  against  the  honor  of  God,  into  poetry,  any  more 
tlian  into  the  catechism. 

"  'Tis  n'  right  to  put  in  about '  Mary,  Queen,'  and  the 
'  Mother  of  Heaven,' — for  I  suppose  'e  was  a  larn'd  man 
that  could  write  what  'e  woul',  Lucy  ?  "  srad  the  father,  in 
a  tone  of  regret;  " 'e  should  n'  help  the  wrong,  when 


■'0 


41 


I;       I 


■ 


ill 

i'llli"' 
I 

I 
I 

H 


': 


m 


?|j||lii'i 


m 


■n 


i 

\  i 

.(h 

!i!:iS 


70 


THE  NEW   PRIEST. 


there's  so  many  taken  by  it,  and  mubbe  lost  forever! 
We  got  no  right  to  '  make  mention  o'  they  nam^s  within 
our  lips/  as  the  psahn  says." 

The  mother  spoke,  perhaps  not  less  sadly,  but  more 
severely : 

''Yes,  child,  it's  just  that  part  will  do  mischief;" — the 
mother  had  been  a  Roman  Catholic,  it  will  be  remem- 
bered. "  They  can't  go  such  a  voyage,  or  see  such  sights, 
but  they  can  call  her  queen,  and  pray  to  her." 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  said  the  bright-eyed  daughter.  "  It's 
all  a  wild  thing,  and  one  part  no  more  true  than  another ; 
but  I  think  it  might  do  mischief." 

"  And  it's  not  well  having  much  to  do  with  Roman 
Catholics — with  the  ways  they  have  now,"  con  turned 
the  mother,  more  pointedly  ;  while  her  'laughter  sat  with 
a  gaze  fixed  upon  her  face,  and  dropped  her  eyes  when 
the  mother  looked  up  from  her  work. 

"  They'm  not  all  bad,"  said  Skipper  George,  "  though 
they're  all  wrong  in  religion  surely.  Thou  wasn't  very 
bad.  Mother,"  he  continued,  with  a  tender  s./ille  at  his 
wife,  "  when  thou  was  one  o'  them ;  though  'ee  're  better 
sunce,  that's  a  sure  case.  I  walked  a  good  piece  wi'  a 
pleasan'-lookin'  gentleman,  (much  like  a  reverend  gentle- 
man 'e  seemed,)  an'  so  'e  said  we  musn'  think  they'm  all 
bad." 

At  him,  again,  the  daughter  looked  with  a  long,  fixed 
gaze,  holding  her  book  upon  her  knees.  Presently,  the 
fisherman  got  up,  and,  laying  down  his  little  load  at  length 
upon  the  bench,  went  forth  into  the  evening. 

A  full,  round  moon  was  shining  in  a  sky  so  clear  that 
it  seemed,  really,  as  if  space  were  empty.  Half  day  it 
was,  and  yet  full  night  ;  and  as  the  fisher,  crossing  the 
green  before  his  house,  mounted  the  ridge  and  leaned 


SKIPPKR  GEORGE. 


71 


1  Roman 

:;ontiiiue(l 

r  sat  with 

yes  when 

"  though 

isn't  very 

lie  at  liis 

're  better 

ece  wi'  a 

id  gentle- 

icy'm  all 

)ng,  fixed 

ently,  the 

^:- 

tit  length 

te 

against  a  lone  tree  or  mast  that  stood  up  from  the  earth 
of  a  cleft  in  the  rocks,  tlie  harbor- I'oad  below  him  was 
shown  plainly,  and  the  houses  at  its  side,  and  in  the  cove 
not  i'ar  off,  stood  plainly  outlined, — larger  and  smaller, 
dark  and  white, — some  in  their  own  inclosures,  some  as 
if  there  were  no  land  in  any  way  belonging  to  them  but 
the  public  thoroughfare  ;  yet  was  there  no  sight  or  sound 
of  living  thing,  except  the  frequent  bark  of  dogs,  and  the 
innumerable  waves,  rising  and  falling  everywhere,  in  their 
most  glorious  cloth  of  silver,  which  they  wear  only  at 
such  times. 

As  he  stood  silently,  a  man  came  near. 

"A  good  evenun,  sir !  I  beg  pardon  for  niakun  so  free 
to  hail'ee,"  said  Skipper  George,  recogr»izing  the  gentleman 
of  wliom  he  had  spoken  a  few  moments  before,  and  who, 
turning  aside,  heartily  gave  back  tlie  fisher's  greeting. 

"  You  had  the  best  lookout  in  the  neighborhood,"  said 
Mr.  Debree,  walking  to  the  spot  on  w^hich  Skipper  George 
had  been  before  standing  and  looking  abroad  from  it. 
"This  tree  didn't  grow  here,"  said  he,  looking  up  at 
the  gray  trunk  glistening  in  the  moonlight. 

"  No,  sir ;  'twas  set  there,"  said  the  lisherman. 

"  Is  it  a  landmark  ?  " 

"  'Is,  sir,  it  may  be,  in  a  manner ;  but  not  for  s'ilun  on 
tliose  waters.  'Twas  set  there  when  riches  was  taken 
aw'y.  Riches  came  agen,  but  'twas  laved,  for  'e'd  larned 
l)artly  how  to  value  riches." 

The  gentleman  looked,  as  the  moonlight  showed,  inter- 
estedly at  the  speaker  :  "  Another  story  with  a  lesson  in 
it  ?  "  he  said.  "  If  it  were  not  for  keeping  you  out  so  late, 
I  would  ask  you  to  do  me  the  favor  of  telling  it." 

"  Ay,  sir,"  said  Skipper  George.  "  I  said  there  were 
amanv  lessons  sent  us.     This   one  t^omed  nearer  to  me 


\ 

\h 

V 

1 

1 

r 
i! ' 

I  :■; 


■!!:■ 


li': 


l!| 


111 /'111' 


■Hi 


>  'i ; 


'■^'A 


72 


TliH   Ni:W  PliiEST. 


aj^aln  than  the  tother.  I  hope  I've  larned  somethun  by 
that  story  !  Fislierinen  don't  heed  niglit  liours  much : 
but  it's  late  for  you  as  well,  sir.  INItibbe  'ee'd  plase  to 
walk  inside  a  bit  ? "  he  asked,  with  modest  urgency. 
"  It's  a  short  story,  only  a  heavy  one !  " 

"  Another  time,  perhaps,"  said  the  strange  frenfloman  ; 
"not  now,  if  you'll  excuse  me  ;  but  if  it  wonlbi't  be  too 
mnvb  tr.:!;'.Ie  I  would  thank  you  for  it  where  we  are. 
On    hoav  ov  another  is  much  the  same  to  me." 

Ai  *hc  iiist  words  of  this  answer  Skipper  George 
turned  a  look  oi  surprise  at  the  stranger,  and  when  tbe 
latter  had  finished  speaking  asked, 

"  Be  'ee  stayun  herejibouts,  then,  sir  ?  " 

Perhaps  he  may  have  thouglit  it  strange  that  one  who 
looked  so  like  a  clergyman  should  be  staying  for  any 
length  of  time  in  the  neighborhood  without  being  better 
known. 

"  I  am  a  clergyman,"  said  the  gentleman,  frankly ; 
"  but  not  of  your  church  ;  and  I  don't  feel  free  until  I'm 
better  known." 

Skipper  George  apparently  weighed  the  answer.  He 
did  not  urge  his  invitation ;  but  his  open  face  became 
clear  and  kindly  as  ever. 

"  Then,  sir,"  said  he,  "  ef  'ee'd  plase  to  be  seated  here, 
I'd  tell  die  story.     I  know  it  well." 

Before  besinninii;  it  the  fisherman  cast  a  look  at  his 
house,  and  then  gazed  awhile  upon  the  restless  waves 
which  here  glanced  with  the  gleam  of  treacherous  eyes, 
and  there  were  dark  as  death. 

"  Do  'ee  mind  about  ten  years  ago,  in  Newfoundland, 
sir?"  began  Skipper  George,  turning  his  steady  eyes  to 
his  hearer,  .•.lud  s})eaking  as  if  the  date  or  the  years 
since    the    date   had  'been    painful   to    him  ;    "  the    hard 


SKIPPER  GEORGE. 


78 


year  that  was   when  they  hud  the  '  rails,'  *  they  called 
'em  ?  " 

*'  Yr=" ;  though  1  was  in  England  at  the  time,  I  know 
protty  well  what  htr^pened  in  Newfoundland.  It  was  a 
sad  time."' 

"  Ay,  sir,  'twas  a  sad  time.  Many  people  suffered  : 
SOT  vj  wanted  food,  and  raore  agen  got  broken  in  spirit, 
(and  that's  bad  for  a  man,)  and  some  got  lawless  like. 
'Twas  a  sad  time,  indeed ! "  Skipper  George,  having 
lingered  thus  before  his  tale,  began  it  abruptly  :  "  Well, 
sir,  'twas  on  the  sixteen  day  of  January,—  Thursday 
'twas, — I  was  acomun  down  Backside  froiii  t  •  Cc'sh, 
hauling  a  slide-load  o'  timber,  an' my  yrw.^'L^f  ton  wi' 
nie.  It  had  abeen  a  une  day,  first  gou..  o'T,  \for  a  win- 
tor's  day,)  wi' just  a  flurry  o'  snow  now  rind  agen,  and  a 
deal  o'  snow  on  tha  ground,  tull  about  u  ;  lOon  it  begun 
to  blow  from  about  west  and  by  nothe,  or  thereaway, 
heavy  and  thick,  an'  growun  heavier  an'  heavier,  an' 
bitter  cold.  Oh !  'twas  bitter  cold !  We  did  n'  say  much 
lugether,  George  an'  1,  but  we  got  along  so  fiist  as  ever  we 
could.  'Twas  about  an  hour  or  two  before  night,  mubbe  ; 
and  George  says  to  me,  '  Let's  lave  the  slide,  Father ! ' 
'Twas  n'  but  we  could  ha'  kep'  o.i  wi'  it,  though  'twas 
tarrible  cold,  hard  work  ;  but  'tv/as  somethun  else  ! 

"  So  we  turned  the  slide  out  o'  the  way  and  laved  her, 
and  corned  on.  'Twas  blowun  gales  up  over  Backside  ; 
we  could  sca'ce  keep  our  feet ;  an'  I  hard  somethun  like  a 
voice — I  suppose  I  was  thinkun  o'  voices — an'  I  brought 
right  up  into  the  wind.  'Twas  just  like  beun  at  sea,  in  a 
manner,  and  a  craft  drivin'  right  across  our  wake,  an' 
would  ha'  been  out  o'  sight  an'  hearun  in  a  minute.  Then 
I  knowed  by  the  sound  'twp^  the  Minister — (we  did  n^ 

*  (Kiillics  V)  riots  in  tho  distress  from  the  American  and  French  v/ars. 


if 


m 


I 


i 


i/iiilfiill' 


,i'i 


Ml 


m 


mm 


m^ 


VI 


THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


have  e'er  a  reverend  gentleman  of  our  own  in  they  days  ; 
but  'e  lived  over  in  Sjuuly  lliirhor  an<l  'e'd  oo.^e  to  go  all 
round  the  Bay.)  We  could  sca'ce  bid(5  together,  but  I 
was  proper  glad  to  meet  un,  (for  a  iniuister's  a  comfo.  ^ 
'ee  know,  sir  ;)  an'  'e  said,  *  Js  any  body  out  ? '  '  There's 
two  o'  brother  Izik's  orphans,  sir,  I'm  af'ejired,  an*  others 
along  wi'  'em,'  I  said.  80  'e  said,  '  God  help  them  !  * 
*  Where  are  you?'  two  other  boys,  James  and  Maunsell  ?  ' 
'  Along  wi'  brother  Izik's  two,'  I  said.  'Twas  blowun 
tarrible  hard,  and  cold,  and  thick ;  an'  the  Minister 
turned  wi'  us,  and  we  conied  up,  ploddun  through  the 
driftun  snow,  and  over  the  rudge.  When  we  opened  the 
door,  first  the  mother  thought  there  was  four  of  us  ;  and 
so  she  said,  '  James  ! '  lor  we  was  all  snowed  over ;  but 
she  sid  there  was  only  three,  and  'twas  the  Minister  wi' 
us  two.  So  she  begged  his  ])ardon,  an'  told  un  our  poor 
boys  were  out  agunnun,  an'  she  was  an  ole  punt  they  had. 
We  were  all  standun  (for  we  didn'  think  o'  nawthin  but 
the  boys)  when  two  comed  into  the  door  all  white  wi* 
snow.  'Twas  n'  they  two,  sir,  but  'twas  my  nevy  Jesse 
an'  another.  '  Haven't  they  comed  ? '  'e  said.  '  Dear, 
what's  keepun  they  ?  ' 

"  Jesse  had  abin  out,  too,  wi'  Izik  MafFen  and  Zippity 
Marchant,  an'  they  were  all  over  to  back-side  o'  Sandy 
Harbor  together ;  on'y  our  poor  young  men  were  about 
three  parts  of  a  mile  further  'lown,  mubbe.  So,  when  it 
comed  on  to  blow,  Jesse  an'  his  crew  made  straight  for 
Back-Cove  an'  got  in,  though  they  were  weak-handed, 
for  one  had  hurted  his  hand-wrist, — and  so,  in  about 
three  hours,  they  got  round  by  land,  an'  thought  the 
tother  poor  fellows  would  do  so  well.  '  What  can  us  do, 
Uncle  Georgie  ?  '  'e  said  ;  for  he's  a  proper  true-hearted 
man,  sir,  an'  'e  was  a'inos'  cryun.     '  First,  we  can  pray. 


SKII'PKK   GEORGi:, 


75 


said  iltii  Mi:  inter  ;  an'  so  ho-  said  a  prayer.  T  make  no 
doubt  I  was  thiiikuii  too  niiicli  over  the;  jmor  yoinig  fel- 
low,-* ;  and  the  wind  made  a  tanihle  great  beMowing  down 
the  ehiniley  and  all  round  the  house,  an'  so  1  was  ruther 
aw'y  from  it  more  "an  1  ought.  Then  the  iSlinister  an' 
Jesse  an'  I  started  out.  My  mistress  didn'  want  me  to 
go  ;  but  I  eouldu'  i)ide  ;  an'  so,  afore  we'd  made  much 
w'y  u))  harbor  agen  the  wind,  an'  growim  dai'k,  (though 
twasn'  snowui'.,)  we  met  a  man  comun  from  tother  side, 
Abrnm  Frank,  an'  'e  said  last  that  was  seen  of  our  four 
was,  they  were  pullun  in  for  llobbis's  Hole,  an'  then 
sometliun  seemed  to  give  way  like,  wi'  one  of  'em  rowun, 
an'  then  they  gave  over  and  put  her  aw'y  before  the 
wind,  an'  so  as  long  as  they  could  see  any  thing  of  'era, 
one  was  standun  up  sculling  astarn.  (That  was  my 
James,  sir  !  ") 

A  very  long,  gently-breathed  sigh  here  made  itself 
heard  in  the  deep  hush,  and  as  Mr.  Dcbree  turned  he 
saw  the  sweet  face  of  Skijjpcr  George's  daughter  turned 
up  to  her  ftxther,  with  tears  swimming  in  both  eyes  and 
glistening  on  her  cheek.  She  had  come  up  behind,  and 
now  possessed  herself  quietly  of  her  fiither's  hand. 

"  So  we  turned  back,  an'  the  Minister  wi'  us,  ('twas  a 
cruel  night  to  be  out  in,)  an'  the  wind  a'mos'  took  an' 
lifted  us,  an'  sot  us  down  by  the  foot  o'  the  path  over  the 
rudge ;  but  when  *ve  got  atop  here,  and  it  corned  athwart, 
it  brought  us  all  down  kneelun,  an'  we  could  sca'ce  get 
over  to  the  door.  Tiie  poor  mother  got  up  from  the 
cliiraley-corner  and  came  for'ard,  but  she  needn'  ask  any 
thin  ;  an'  there  was  a  pretty  young  thing  by  the  fire 
{this  girl  was  a  little  thing,  asleep,  but  there  was  a  pretty 
young  thing  there)  that  never  got  up  nor  looked  round ; 
'twas  Milly  Ressle,  that  was  troth-plight  to  James.    They 


ir 


II      I 


ili^jiili^ 


i 


m 


76 


TIIK   NKW   I'UIKST. 


wjis  to  luivc  been  marriod  in  a  week,  cf  the  Lord  willed . 
and  'twas  for  'e's  jjousc  we  w(ire  dniwiin  out  the  timber. 
She  just  rocked  herself  on  the  bench. — Shu's  gone,  long 
enough  ago,  now,  sir! 

"  So  the  ALinister  took  llu^  Hook,  Jind  read  .'i  bit.  I 
heard  un,  an'  I  didn'  hear  un  ;  I'or  I  was  aw'y  out  ui)on 
the  stormy  waters  wi'  the  poor  young  men.  Oh,  what 
a  night  it  was  !  it's  no  use  !  blowun  an'  bellowun  an' 
freezun,  an'  ice  all  along  shore  to  leeward ! 

"  Well,  then,  sir,  about  two  hours  o'  night,  there  comed 
a  lull,  an'  then  there  vva.>  a  |)ush  or  shak(i  at  the  door,  an' 
another, — an'  tuiother, — an'  another, — (so  it  was,  we  all 
thought,)  and  then  the  door  banged  open.  There  wasn' 
a  one  of  us  but  was  standun  u})on  'is  feet,  an'  starun  out 
from  the  kitchun,  wIkmi  it  opened.  'Twas  nawthing  but 
cold  blasts  comed  in,  an'  then  a  lull  agen  ft)r  a  second  or 
two.  So  I  shut  to  the  door ;  an'  the  poor  mother  broke 
out  acryun,  an'  {)Oor  Milly  fell  over,  an'  8lii)i)ed  right 
down  u[)on  the  hearthstone.  We  had  a  heavy  time  of  it 
that  night,  sir  ;  but  wlien  the  door  banged  open  that  tiuK;, 
thifj  child  that  was  a  little  thing  then,  lyun  upon  the 
bench  sleepun,  made  a  soart  of  a  gui'gle,  like,  when  the 
first  sound  comed  to  the  door,  and  then  when  the  flaws 
o'  wind  comed  in  she  smiled,  and  smiled  agen,  and 
laughed,  as  ef  a  body  ra'y  be  sayun  pooty  things  to  her 
in  d'y-time.  Jesse  sid  it,  an  ;^!ucked  me  by  the  coat- 
sleeve,  and  T  sid  it,  too. 

"  Well,  sir,  night  passed :  'ee  may  be  sure  we  didn* 
sleep  much,  on'y  cat-naps  ;  and  once  or  twice  I  failed 
into  a  kind  of  a  dwall,*  an'  started,  thinkun  the?/  was 
speakun  to  me.  Mornun  corned  slow  and  cold — colder 
than  night.     So  the  nighbors  comed  in  at  mornun,  and 

*  Doze. 


sKiri'KR  (iMounr:. 


77 


upon 
wliiit 


sat  by ;  and  now  an*  agcn  one  'onld  s^ay  tlioy  were  fine 
youn;^  men  ;  an'  utter  a  l>it  aiiotlicr  M  say  .lainos  was  a 
bravo  heart,  and  liow  h(!  saviid  a  boat's  crew  thre(;  years 
a;^o,  senllun  llieni  info  B'y-llarhor  ;  an'  so  tliey  said  how 
ho  be;jjiui  to  teach  in  Sunday-sehool  Sunday  hetbro  ;  an' 
how  bravo  'o  was,  when  they  sid  tlio  hist  of  un,  seulhm 
aw'y  round  tlie  point  and  over  the  b'y,  tor  t'other  sido, 
or  lor  IJell-Isle,  or  soino  phico  to  l«ieward.  So  tliey  said 
James  *ould  take  'oin  sate,  phisc;  God,  an'  we'd  hoar  of 
'em  soin(i  i)hieo  over  tlie  b'y  in  a  d'y  or  two.  Tlion 
thoy  said  they  wondered  of  tlio  youtij;^  men  couhl  keep 
from  froozun  their  iiandes,  an'  said  niubljo  tliey  woul(hi' 
j;it  touciied,  for  thoy  was  all  well-elothcd,  an'  .James  'onld 
koo})  up  their  spirits,  an'  brother  Izik's  little  Goorgo  wa3 
u  merry  boy,  an' <;reat  play-game  tor  the  rest;  an'  my 
Maunsoll  an'  'o's  tot  her  cousin,  John,  were  steady  young 
men,  an'  wouldn'  give  up  very  easy ;  but  thoy  were  both 
quiet,  and  looked  up  to  James,  though  John  was  a  good 
bit  older. 

"  WuU,  sir,  the  day  went  on,  cold,  cold,  an'  blowun 
heavy,  an'  the  water  black  an'  white,  wi'  white  shores,  an' 
slob-ice  all  tdong ; — an'  more,  agon,  an'  heavier,  to  lee- 
ward, sartenly.  We  could  n'  stir  hand  or  loot  that  day, 
nor  next ;  but  the  Lord's  day  came  in  softer,  an'  we  got 
a  good  crew  an'  a  stout  punt  to  sarch  for  the  four 
poor  boys  that  bad  been  three  days  a  missun,  and  old  Mr. 
Williamson,  the  clerk  that  is  now,  sir,*  made  a  prayer 
over  us  betbre  we  laved.  When  we  come  to  j)ut  off,  they 
left  m''  standun ;  I  make  no  doubt  but  Jesse  maned  to 
.^I)are  nio ;  but  I  called  un  back,  for  I  said,  why  should  I 
be  settun  wi'  my  hands  folded,  or  walking  about,  lookun 
out  over  the  water,  and  I  may  just  so  well  be  doun  soipe" 

*  l*arisli-clcrk. 


■'rw 


■mfih 


I    f 


THK   NKW   I'r?IKST 


(hun  liko  si  iallicr  lor  my  sons  an'  for  my  broll'.or's  or- 
phans ? 

"Wo  made  lor  IJroad  (^)V(» ;  for  so  we  IIioiiii;li(  (lie 
w'uul  wonid  lia'drixcM  (lie  poor  yonnj:;  IM lows  a-Tlnirsday  | 
bill  Ave  conldn'  i!;»'l  into  Broad  Cove,  lor  lli<"  slob  an'  caUrs 


ofi 


CO 


'rii(>  shore  lookccj  larriidc  cimioI  ! 


Skipper  (Jcoi'liic  sale  ihonj^hllnl  a  moment,  and  Iheri 
beir^n  au-'iin. 

"Al  Poi'l'^al  Cove,"  ]i(>  conlinued,  looking  o\-er  llio 
waler,  "they  did  n'  know  abont  e'er  a  pnni,  an'  no  moi'is 
ihey  did  n'  at  l»i'oad  ('ove,  nor  Ilolly-Kood;  for  wo.  staid 
lhi-(M»  days,  an'  walked  an'  sMrelie<!  all  ovei'.  An'  so  a 
Thni'sday  moi-n  airen  we  coined  b;ick  home; — 'Iwas  cold, 
bnf  still.  So  when  W(>  coined  round  I'eterporl-Point, 
(that's  it  over  at  the  outside  o'  l>Ia/,nn  I  lend,  yonder,) 
oveiy  man,  a'mosl,  looked  over  his  shon!d(M',  thinkun 
mublx^  they'd  ^ot  in  ;  but  'twas  n'  so.  They  luid  n'  come, 
nor  tliev  haibi'  be(Mi  hard  from.  So  my  mistress,  an* 
INIilly.  an'  (uM)rL;;(%  an'  1,  an'  this  mai<l  knecded  down  after 
I'd  told  '<Mn  how  'twas,  a.n'  prayed  to  the  pxMl  Ivord. 

"An'  so  we  wailed,  an'  did  n'  hear  Irom  the  four  pooi 
bovs,  r.ot  for  a  ^ood  many  days!" 


Ski|>per  (i(>orije  sto|>ped  her<^  aj^nin  for  a  wdiile. 
"Aw(dl,  sir.  then    there   conKMl    word   oxer,  that 


m( 


n  had  ai)in  fonnd  at  Broad  (^ove  ! — It  was  n' 


some 
known 


who  thev  W(>re  ;  but  we  knowed.  So  they  ^ot  Mr.  AVor- 
ner's  boat,  an'  a  crew  of  'em  went  round,  ati'  Skipper 
'Enery  Kessle.  an'  Ski|>j)er  I:^ik  Ressle  (that  was  INlilly's 
father.)  an'  Skipper  l/,ik  ]M:irchnnt,  ('e  was  n'  Skij)j)er 
then,  however.)  bnt  a  many  friends  goed  in  her, — 1  conld 


n  iio 


that  t 


ime,  sn', 


" 'Twas  about  snn-ijoini-down,  v^Vj  comcd  in.     Nevtr  a 
word  noi'  a  sound !      She  looked  oiack,  sei  munly  ;  an'  no 


M, 


4.U 


SKIIM'KIl   (iKOKOK. 


79 


colors    nor    fhii^. — 'Twus    iUv.y !       Sure    enou|^li,    'twas 
tlicy ! 

"A  iri.'Ui  li;i(l  sid  ;i  |)(iiit  .'ill  ("ovcrc*!  vvi'  ice,  an'  li.'iiil(:<l 
licr  ii|);  Mil'  wlicM  Im',  coinrd  (o  clear  away  llic  ice,  lli<',r<; 
was  a,  iDan,  Hccmiiiily,  in  llic  liir'ard  pai'l. !  !!<;  called 
llie  iiiL;hl)ors  ;  an',  sure  eii(niL!;li,  ',lier<;  \\  was,  an'  uriotlior 
'jiie,  aloii^ji;  wi'  iin  ;  an'  holli  seeminily  a-ktieelnn  an'  Icariun 
over  (lie  for'ard  lli'arl.  'I'licy  were  tlie  two  hrotlu-rH, 
.loliii  an'  111  lie  (ieori^e,  i'ro/eii  si  ill",  an'  I  wo  arms  locked  tx>- 
f^ellier!  TlK'y  <rK'd  |»r'yiin,  sir,  most,  lik<dy  ;  so  it.  se(!irie(l. 
Tliey  was  ^ood  la<ls,  sir,  an'  lli''y  knowed  tlieir  Ood ! 

"So,  then,  tliey  tlioiiirlit  lliere  was  n'  no  m<»re " 

The  fislK'rmaii  here  made  ii   l<i'iL''er   |iaii<e,  ;ind   ^etlinj^ 


Up  f'r<»in  his  seat,  said  "  I'll  he  hack,  alter  ji,  hit.  sir 


aiK 


I 


walkiii;.^  away  i'roin  Mr.  Dehnte,  and   his  daiiLfhter,  stood 
for  a  little  while  with  his  hack  toward  them  and  his  head 


)are 


T 


le  inai( 


len  ) 


»ei.     1,,  ,•  jT(»ii 


tie  i\ 


ice  n})on  her  knee  within 


Imm'   (wo    hands.      i  !i<'  moonlip^ht  <!;losse,d   her  I'icli  black 


h 


lair,  *!:liiiiced   from    her   white  cap,  and   jjrave    a  jrracf!  to 
her  bended    neck.      At    the  tirst,  motion  of  her  father  to 


(iini  a 


bout. 


rose  to  her  i'eet  and  awaited   hi 


m. 


Ul 


)ori 


on    Ins 


him  too, — on  his  liea<l,  bared  of  its   hair,  abov*; 
broad,  m  inly  front,  find  f)n  his  steady  eye, — the  moonligfit 
lell  beautifully.     Mr.  Debree  rose,  also,  to  waif  for  him. 
Ski[)i)er  G"orj;<!  eame  back   and   took   up   his   broken 


stoi 


y 


liumbye,  sir,  when  they  romed  to  (he  afier-fiart  of 
the  boat,  there  they  found  a  youn^  man  lyiin  in  the  starn- 
slieets,  wi'  no  coat,  an'  his — an'  his — his  j)')or,  lovun  arm 
under 'is  brother's  neek  ; — an'  the  totlier  ha.d  the  jacket 
rolled  rip  (()r  a  j>illow  under  his  head,  an'  I  sup})Ose  'e 
died  there,  sleepun  upon  the  jack(;t,  Ih-it  'is  brother  rolled 
lip  lor  !iii." 


K 


80 


THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


The  voice  of  the  father  was  very  tender  and  touchhig 
but  he  did  not  give  way  to  tears. 

"  So,  sir,  tliat  young  man  had  done  'is  part,  and  sculled 
'era  safe  right  along  wi'  the  tarrible  cruel  gale,  aw'y  over 
a  twenty  miles  or  more,  to  a  safe  cove,  an'  his  hand- 
wristes  were  all  worn  aw'y  wi'  workun  at  the  oar ;  but  'e 
never  thought  of  a  cruel  gate  of  ice  right  afore  the  cove ; 
an'  so  we  made  no  doubt  when  'e  found  that,  in  dark 
night,  and  found  'e  could  n'  get  through,  nor  'e  could  n' 
walk  over,  then  'e  gave  hisself  up  to  his  God,  an'  laid 
down,  an'  put  his  tii"ed  arm  round  his  brother ;  an'  so 
there  they  were,  sir,  in  short  after  that,  (it  couldn'  ha' 
been  long,)  there  was  four  dead  men  in  their  boat, 
awaitun,  outside  o'  Broad  Cove,  tull  some  one  'ould  come 
an'  take  their  poor  bodies,  an'  strip  aw'y  the  ice  from  'em 
an'  put  'em  in  the  ground,  that  comes  more  nat'rai,  in 


a  manner,  sn 


.  I 


"  — They  did  n'  find  e'er  an  oar, — whatever  becomed 
of  'em ;  but  they  found  their  poor  guns,  an'  the  two  or- 
phans had  their  names  cut  'John  Barbury,'  an'  '  George 
Barbury,'  an'  one  of  'em  had  '  Pet — '  for  Peterport,  an' 
couldn'  cut  no  more,  for  cold — an'  death. 

"  There  was  three  guns  cut ;  an'  one  had  '  James 
Barb — ,'  that  poor  Maunsell  must  ha'  cut,  poor  fellovs'-, 
afore  the  deadly  cold  killed  un.  So  the  kind  people  that 
Ibund  the  poor  boys,  they  thought  James  was  a  respectable 
young  man,  an'  when  they  coined  to  lay  'em  out,  in  the 
scliool-house,  (they  were  pro[)er  kind,  sir,)  they  jiut  u 
rutile-shirt  on  him,  o'  linen. 

"  So,  sir,  the  Minister  corned  over  an'  buried  the  dead. 
Four  cofiins  were  laid  along  the  aisle,  wi'  a  white  sheet 
over  every  one,  because  we  had  n'  i)alls :  James,  an' 
Maunsell,  of  George,  an'  John,  an'  little  George,  of  Izik ; 


ii^. 


SKIPPER  George. 


81 


f»S 


lied 

>ver 

ind- 

Lit'e 

)vc; 

dark 

Ld  n' 

laid 
n'  so 
i'  lui' 

boat, 

come 
n  'em 
i-al,  in 

jcoraed 
ko  or- 
eorge 
|ort,  an' 

James 

felloNs^ 

Iplo  that 

)ectablc 

in  the 

put  u 

no  dead. 

lite  sheet 
iie:^,  an' 
of  Izik; 


an'  wc  put  two  brotliers  in  one  grave,  an'  two  brothers  in 
anotlier,  side  by  side,  an'  covered  them! 

"  Tiiere  was  two  tliousand  at  the  funeral ;  an'  when  the 
IMiuister  couldu'  help  cryun,  so  I  think  a'most  every  one 
eried,  as  ef  'twas  their  own  ;  an'  so  we  hard  that  people 
that  lived  on  Kelley's  Island  hard  singun  goun  by  in  the 
(lark,  like  chantun  we  haves  in  church.  They  said  'twas 
beautiful,  eomun  up  an'  dyun  aw'y,  an'  so,  goun  aw'y 
wi'  the  wind.  It's  very  like,  sir,  as  Paul  an'  Silas  sang 
in  prison,  so  tliey  sang  in  stor... 

"  Then  Milly,  poor  thing,  that  never  goed  hack  to  'er 
father's  house,  took  a  cold  at  the  funeral,  seemunly,  an' 
siie  died  in  James's  bed  a  three  weeks  after !  Slie  was 
out  of  lu!r  mind,  too,  i)oor  tiling ! " 

After  another  silence,  in  which  Skipper  George  gazed 
u})on  the  restless  deep,  he  said, 

"  I  bi'ought  liome  wi'  me  the  best  stick  from  the  timber, 
and  laved  the  rest,  an'  no  one  ever  touched  it,  an'  there 
it  staid.  So  next  winter,  sir,  my  tother  poor  young  man 
died  in  tlie  woods,  o'  masles ;  ( — thank  God !  we  never 
had  to  move  in  *  till  I  lost  my  line  boys.^  an'  the  next 
sixteen  day  of  January  I  set  up  my  })illar,  as  Jacob  set 
his  pillar,  an'  this  is  my  pillar,  sir.  I  said  the  Lord  gived, 
an'  the  Lord  have  tookt  away ;  blessed  be  the  name  of 
the  Lord. — All  the  riches  I  had  I  thouaht  'twas  ";one." 

"  You  said  riches  came  again,"  said  Mr.  Debree,  deeply 
interested  and  atrected. 

"Ay,  sir.  My  maid  is  gone  back  to  the  house.  I  can' 
tell  'ee  what  she  is,  sir.  There's  a  plenty  in  the  harbor 
will  speak  o'  Lucy  Barbury,  sir.  I  hope  'ee'll  excuse  me 
tor  keepin  'ee  so  late." 

"  I  thank   you,  with  all  my  lieart,  for  that  beautiful 

*  hito  tlie  woods  to  be  near  fuel. 


:**r«j 


li.    ' 


82 


THE  NE\V   PRIEST. 


i'li 

'ill! 


I  .1 
t  i 


story,"  said  Mr.  Debree,  shaking  the  fishiirman's  hand. 
"Good  night,  Skipper  George!  You  have  learned  a 
lesson,  indeed,  and,  with  God's  grace,  it  shall  do  me  good. 
It's  a  noble  lesson !  " 

"  The  Lord  showed  me  where  to  find  it  in  my  Bible 
an'  my  Pr'yer-book,  sir.      I  wish  'ee  a  good  evenun,  sir." 

So    there   was   a    histoi-ic  beauty  (to    those   who 

knew  them)  about  the  girls  in  that  house. 

They  were  the  only  remaining  children  of  George 
Barbury.  Skipper  George,  as  he  was  called,  though  he 
neither  owned  nor  "  saiKid "  a  schooner,  had  lost  his 
greatest  wealth  (as  things  go  here) — three  fine  sons, — all 
three  in  early  manhocd ;  two  at  one  time,  and  afterward 
his  last.  This  was  u  great  loss.  It  made  the  father 
stronger  in  himself,  standing  alone  and  stretching  upward ; 
but  it  desolated  this  world  very  much  for  him.  Those 
sons  would  have  enlai'ged  his  family ;  with  them  and 
theirs  ho  would  one  day  have  mjumed  his  schooner  for 
"  the  Larbadore."  *  He  would  have  been  another  man  at 
the  head  of  such  a  race. 

They  were  all  gone  now  ;  and  the  fiither  was,  perhaps, 
the  better  man  for  it :  (a  brave,  good,  kindly  man  he 
was ;)  and  the  people  respected  him,  and  they  called  him 
"  Skipper  "  as  a  token  of  respect. 

One  of  these  gii"ls  remained,  and  one  was  given  to  him 
after  his  loss  ;  and  Luc}'^  had  grown  into  a  young  woman  ; 
and  in  her  case,  most  certainly,  it  was  a  good  thing  that 
her  father  had  made  up  his  mind  naver  to  set  his  heart 
on  any  human  thing.  He  had  her  with  him  often  on  the 
water,  and  he  was  glad  to  watch  her  at  her  work  at  home 
and  hear  her  read  ;  yet  steadily  he  threw  her  on  herself 
(in  his  homely  wisdom,)  to  make  a  woman  of  her  ;  and 

*  LabriuliM". 


SKIPPER   GEORGE. 


83 


hand. 

lied  a 

good. 

Bible 
1,  sir." 
e  who 


^eor^^e 


ig 


h  lie 

I 

jst  his 
IS, — all 
erward 

father 
pward ; 

Those 
im  and 
)iier  for 

man  at 

perhaps, 
man  he 
led  him 

to  him 
woman  ; 
that 
is  heart 
n  on  the 
at  home 

herself 
cr  ;  and 


himself  looked  out  of  his  more  lonely  life,  witli  great 
fatherly  eyes  U})on  hci  ;  rcjoieiiif^  in  her  beauty  and 
goodness,  and  thouglitfiilness,  and  hojiing  much  fVoni  lier ; 
but  counting  her  as  not  altogether  belonging  to  himself. 

She  had  her  own  end  before  her  from  her  childhood, 
which  seemed  to  be  to  do  her  utmost  work  in  tlie  world  ; 
and,  lirst,  to  fill  her  brothers'  place.  She  did  not  ask  or 
talk  ;  but  she  took  heed,  and  heard,  and  saw,  and  felt 
and  thus  grew  and  learned.  At  ten  years  of  age  she  first 
made  up  her  mind  fhat  she  would  never  grow  into  a  man, 
and  so  fill  up  her  father's  loss.  When  some  chance  con- 
versation first  brought  her  to  this  point,  (which,  very 
likely,  she  had  feared  before,)  there  was  seen  a  flow  and 
ebb  of  blood ;  and  tears  got  as  high  as  the  level  of  her 
lids ;  and  then,  without  asking  or  saying,  she  knew  that  it 
was  a  w^oman's  place  she  was  to  have.  So  in  all  girls' 
ways  she  did  her  utmost,  and  into  whatever  she  did  or 
learned,  she  threw  herself  with  all  her  might. 

Her  motiier  was  a  most  sensible  woman,  with  much  the 
same  spirit  as  her  husband's ;  and  >)eing  yor.  iger,  by  ten 
years  or  so,  than  he,  was,  for  that  reason,  more  a  com- 
panion of  her  daughter.  For  other  teaching  than  she  got 
at  home  and  on  the  water,  there  w\t,s  the  s(  lool  which 
IVIr.  Wellon  had  succeeded  in  establishing,  ■  lere  Lucy 
Barbury  outlearned  every  thing ;  and  Mr.  W  on,  finding 
this  quiet,  pretty  little  girl  so  bright,  taught  h*  :■  himself,  in 
some  things,  and  lent  her  books.  Miss  Da:  nade  much 
of  her,  too;  talked  with  her,  and  listened  U)  her,  and  en- 
couraged her,  and  read  with  her;  and  L  icy  grew  aston- 
ishingly in  wisdom  and  even  in  wdiat  is  learned  from 
books. 

This  night,  witJiin  the  house  again,  for  a  while,  Lucy 
Barbury  sate  looking,  with  absent  eyes,  at  her  father,  who 


■^  ri 


'  '  'il. 


81 


Tin-:   NEW   PRIKST. 


i 

i 


\]Vm 


himself  sato  late ;  tlien  she  trimmed  the  lamp,  and  busied 
herself  with  piipcr  and  ptMicil. 

It  Avas  all  silent  till  their  evenino;  praycr-tinic  ;  then, 
late  as  it  wnf^,  Lucy  read  the  New  Testament  lesson  f()r 
the  day;  and  the  father  used  the  eveninp^  collects  of  the 
Coinm()n-i)raver-l)()()k,  holdinsj:  liltle  Jjuiie  aujain  in  his 
arms;  and  then  th(^  liltle  gathering  was  broken  u|). 

It  was  the  parents'  way  to  leave  their  daughter  to  her 
own  times,  and  she  trimmed  her  lam[)  and  sate  in  the 
chinuu^y  after  they  wei'e  gone  to  bed. 

The  next  morning  they  found  her  lying,  in  her  clothes, 
upon  her  bed,  burning  with  fever. 

Dr.  Aylwin  was  sent  for,  from  Brigus,  and  said  that 
"  it  was  severe,  and  would  not  be  over  in  a  day — or  two." 


f 


A  MKETING. 


8r> 


;ied 


CHAPTER  IX. 


A    MEETING. 


I  AYS,  fiiir  and  foul,  went  by ;  the  fever  kept  about 
its  slow  work  in  Miirchants'  Cove,  and  Skipper 
Georpji^'s  dauiihlcr  was  siek.  There  came  a  very 
beautiful  al'lcrnoon,  on  (he  twelllli  of  lliat  Aujj^ust.  All 
was  i'air,  ms  if  there  were  no  provision  in  eitiier  sea  or 
sky  for  rnin. 

The  wind  from  tlic  sea  was  swe(;piiC'  steadily  over  the 
"cjould"  buslies  on  the  Baekside;  i-\v  /.y  overhead  was 
clear,  and  if  a  cloud  floated,  it  was  above  the  wind ;  and 
there  it  saiUul  slowly,  as  if  it  were  a  barge  from  which 
some  lovely  spirits  gazed  upon  the  happy  earth.  The 
little  breakers  played  quietly,  (at  this  distance  no  sound 
comes  up  from  them,)  rejoicing,  a[)parcntly,  among  them- 
selves, as  if  they  were,  what  they  are  often  called,  living 
"  white  horses." 

The  wind  took  little  notice  o^  the  childish  trees  that 
lifted  up  their  heads  among  the  bushes,  but  scarcely  yet 
above  them,  and  swept  on  toward  the  farther  woods  and 
inner  barrens,  there  to  lay  by  what  it  was  bringing  of 
health  and  freshness  from  the  main. 

The  day  was  such  as  often  draws  one's  longings  for- 
wards, forwards,  as  the  sweet  wind  goes,  and  brings  into 
the  mind  a  gentle  sorrow,  because  it  cannot  go  along 
farther  or  faster  than  the  heavy  body. 


-,i 


If 


8G 


THE  iNEW   TRIEST. 


This  neigliborhood  lius  seldom  any  stir  of  human  life, 
and  birds  and  insects  are  not  frequent  here.  The  paths 
are  travelled  most  in  winter ;  I'or  tliey  lead  over  to  the 
woods,  crossing  some  swamps  and  [)onds,  porha[)s,  in  the 
way  ;  and  these  are  frozen  at  that  season.  They  can  be 
traversed,  however,  (some  of  them,)  at  other  times,  by 
those  who  are  familiar  with  them,  with  no  worse  risk  than 
that  of  getting  a  wet  loot  at  a  careless  moment,  and  they 
are  shorter  ways  of  connnunication  between  the  houses 
on  the  harbor-road  in  Peterport  and  the  next  settlement, 
towards  Bay-Harbor,  than  the  main  highway. 

Some  simple  flowers  grow  here  among  the  stones  and 
shrubs,  and  berries  in  their  season.  The  linmEa  harealis 
puts  up  its  pretty  pinkness,  (coulbunded  with  the  blossom 
of  the  cranberry  by  the  people ;)  sj)iked  willuw-weed  ; 
golden-rod  ;  the  sweet  flower  of  the  bake-ai)ple,  and  other 
pretty  things  grow  quietly  u])on  this  ground,  which  is 
scarce  habitable  for  man.  The  graceful  maidenhair,  with 
its  pretty,  spicy  fruit ;  phunboys,  bake-ap])les,  crackers, 
partridge-berries,  horts,  and  others  enrich  the  barrenness, 
Hnd  make  it  worth  the  while  for  women  and  children  to 
oome  and  gather  them. 

On  this  particular  day,  at  this  particular  time,  the 
single  figure  of  a  gentleman  in  black  dress  was  crossing 
the  surface  of  the  shrubbery,  just  about  midway  between 
the  harbor's  head  and  the  outer  point.  He  was  walking 
moderately,  and  any  one,  who  saw  him  nearly,  would 
have  seen  his  hands  clasped  before  him,  and  a  thoughtful, 
serious  look  upon  his  face.  Whoever  knew  him  would 
have  known  afar  that  it  was  the  new  Romish  prie>t. 

Just  as  he  turned  a  short  corner,  where  the  growth  of 
little  firs  was  rather  thicker  than  elsewhere,  there  started 
up  at  his  step  a  pretty  thing ;  no  bird,  but  a  sweet  little 


A  MEETING. 


87 


the 


king 


th  of 

arted 

little 


girl,  with  the  flushed  face  of  one  who  had  been  stooping 
long,  and  the  loose  locks,  that  were  a  fairer  covering  for 
the  lovely  head  tlian  the  8t raw-hat  whieli  Imng  adowii 
her  shoulders.  The  little  thing,  before  collecting  her- 
self,— before  seeing  fairly  the  person  who  had  come  so 
suddeidy  upon  her, — sjiid  in  a  startled  way,  "  Who  are 
you  ?  " 

After  looking  at  hinj  for  a  moment,  however,  she  came 
straight  up  to  him,  witli  her  eyes  fixed  on  his  face,  and  said, 
"  I've  got  a  great  many  berries." 

At  the  same  time  she  held  up,  in  a  sweet  way,  still 
looking  straight  upon  his  face,  her  apron,  heavy  with  the 
load  tliat  she  had  been  gathering. 

"  Thank  you,  my  little  child  ;  I  don't  want  any  of 
them,"  answered  Mr.  Debree,  scarcely  lieeding  the  child, 
who  was  looking  up  so  steadily  upon  him.  Then,  as  the 
little  creature  was  about  to  turn  away,  rebuffed  and  dis- 
tanced by  his  manner,  he  recalled  himself  from  his  ab- 
stractedness, and,  (;ondescending  to  her,  asked, 

"  Do  you  wish  me  to  take  one  of  your  berries  ?  " 

"  Yes,  if  you  please,  a  great  many.  Were  you  looking 
for  me  when  you  came  here  ?  " 

"  No,  my  child,"  answered  he  again  kindly,  "  I  didn't 
know  that  you  were  here." 

"  Oh !  yes.  I've  been  here  a  great  while  ;  I've  been 
here  a  great  many  hours  ;  I  don't  know  how  long  I've 
been  here.     Do  you  know  my  mamma  ?  " 

^  No.  I  don't  know  your  mamma,"  said  he,  patiently 
keeping  up  the  conversation  with  the  talkative  little  thing, 
whose  voice  was  as  pleasant  as  her  look,  and  who  evi- 
dently wished  to  become  better  acquainterl. 

"  Does  your  mamma  let  you  come  and  stay  here  so 
long  all  alone  ?  "  inquired  he  on  his  part. 


sa 


THE   NEW   I'UIEST. 


m^ 


f^ 


\' 


! 


i  r 


"  Wiiy,  no !  I'm  not  Jilono.  Don't  you  see  ?  "  said  the 
young  thing,  with  that  directness  and  fatisfaction  of  hav- 
ing the  advantage  of  a  "great  man,"  whicli  also  grown-up 
children  sliow  in  the  same  way  when  they  tind  themselves 
better  informed  in  some  particuUir  than  some  otlier:^ 
are. 

As  she  said  these  words,  there  rose  from  the  near 
bushes  a  merry  laugh  of  little  ones,  wlio  had  been  hearing 
all,  unseen,  and  had  been,  very  likely,  on  the  point  of 
bi-eaking  out  before. 

"  Don't  you  hear  those  children  ?  They  are  with  me  ; 
and  there's  a  woman  over  there,  with  a  j)ink  ribbon  round 
her  neck,  sitting  by  that  rock  ;  don't  you  see  her  ?  She'll 
see  that  we  don't  get  into  any  mischief." 

Mr.  Debree  smiled  as  she  reported  so  glibly  these  last 
words,  words  whi(;h  sounded  as  if  they  had  made  a  part 
or  the  whole  of  the  request  or  injunction  given  when 
the  children  set  forth  from  home.  In  the  direction  to 
which  his  eye  turned,  as  she  spoke,  the  woman  "  with  the 
pink  ribbon,"  was  plainly  to  be  seen  at  no  great  dis- 
tance. 

These  are  tenacious  little  things  these  children  ;  and  a 
kindhearted  man,  though  he  be  a  childless  Romish  priest, 
cannot  rudely  break  away  from  one  of  them  that  wishes 
to  detain  him.  Father  Ignatius,  though  a  little  reserved, 
was  very  gentle  in  his  manner,  and  his  voice  had  no 
repulsive  tone  in  it ;  the  child  seemed,  as  children  do,  to 
draw  towards  him.  She  took  his  liand,  although  he  had 
several  times  turned  to  go  on  iiis  way,  and  prepared  to 
lead  him  back  again  over  his  steps.     He  gently  resisted. 

"  Where  do  you  mean  to  lead  me  ?  "  he  asked. 

She  hesitated  for  a  moment,  as  if  abashed,  and  then, 
loosing  her  hold  of  his  hand,  and  turning  one  little  foot 


A    MKETINC. 


80 


hen, 
foot 


round  upon  it's  toe,  swayinp;  her  body,  at  the  same  time 
a  little  Jiwiiy  from  iiim,  asked  timidly, 

"  Don't  you  want  to  go  and  see  my  mamma?** 

"But  1  don't  know  your  mannna,  my  cliild,"  he  an- 
swered, taking  this  oi)[)ortunity  to  effcot  liis  purpose  of 
keeping  on  his  path  ;  so  saying  "  flood  bye  ! "  he  walked 
away,  lie  turned  his  head  ere  long,  and  saw  the  child 
unsatisfied  standing  still  upon  the  same  spot ;  her  hands 
holding  u])  her  loaded  apron,  \u;r  head  bent  forwards,  and 
her  eyes  lixed  upon  him.  He  stooped  hastily,  and  has- 
tily came  back,  saying :  "  There's  a  pretty  little  flower 
for  you  that  I  found  under  the  fir-tree  yonder." 

"  INIamma  said  I  was  a  little  flower  that  gi'ew  in  the 
shade,"  said  the  child,  and  then,  as  if  trying  again  to 
establish  an  intercourse  between  herself  and  her  chance- 
companion,  asked  him  suddenly, 

"Are  you  a  minister?" 

"Yes.     What  made  you  think  so?" 

"  Do  you  know  Mr.  Wellon  ?  "  continued  she  in  her 
course  of  interrogation. 

"  Yes,  I  know  him,"  he  answered,  once  more  turning 
to  be  gone. 

"  Do  you  love  Mr.  Wellon  ? "  she  went  on,  following 
out  her  own  little  train  of  thought.  "I  know  him,  and 
I  love  him  very  much  ;  do  you  ?  "  She  put  the  second 
interrogative  at  the  end  of  the  sentence,  to  compensate 
for  the  diversion,  in  the  middle  clause,  from  the  opening 
question,  as  one  bring-  up,  to  its  first  level,  a  rope  that 
has  sagged  in  its  length  midway. 

"  Yes,"  said  he,  as  kindly  and  quietly  as  before,  and 
not  persisting  now  in  going  on. 

"  Mr.  Wellon  hasn't  any  little  children ;  have  you  got 
any  little  children  ?  "  she  asked. 


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IMAGE  EVALUATION 
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23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  MS80 

(716)  872-4503 


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iiO 


THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


*'  No,"  answered  he,  turning  away. 

"Are  you  a  Romis'  pries'?"  was  her  next  inquiry, 
using  tlie  words  (except  tor  childishness  of  pronunciation) 
as  familiarly  as  if  she  had  been  reading  and  spelling  out 
of  a  book  of  controversy,  the  little  thing ! 

Seeing  the  gentleman  change  color  slightly,  or  noticing, 
perhaps,  some  other  slight  change  which  a  child's  eye  so 
readily  detects  and  a  child's  mind  interprets  as  well  as  it 
knows  how,  she  hastened  to  ask  him,  looking  abashed, 

"  Is  that  bad  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no.  But  what  made  you  tliink  of  it  ?  Where 
did  you  hear  about  Romish  priests  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  where  I  heard  it.  I  h(^ard  it  some- 
where," answered  the  little  one,  in  her  simplicity.  "  1 
heard  mamma  i^ay  it,  and  Mr.  Wellon." 

"  Did  they  say  that  I  was  one  ?  "  said  he,  in  a  lower 
voice  than  before. 

"  No  ;  they  didn't  say  you  ;  they  said  some  men  were 
that." 

"  And  what  sort  of  man  do  you  think  it  is  ?  " 

"  1  think  it's  a  man  like  you." 

"  And  why  do  you  think  it's  a  man  like  me  ?  "  he  asked 
again,  smiling. 

I  don't  know  ;  I  think  it  is,"  the  little  thing  said,  giv- 
ing a  child's  reason. 

"And  is  it  somebody  like  Mr.  Wellon,  do  you 
think?" 

"  Oh  !  no.  It  isn't  a  man  like  Mr.  Wellon,"  said  she, 
decidedly. 

"  What  is  Mr.  Wellon,  then  ?     Do  you  know  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes  !  I  know  Mr.  Wellon  is  a  pries'  of  God," 
she  answered,  looking  up  to  him. 

"  Wlio  is  your  mamma  ?  " 


i':k 


A  MKKTING. 


91 


"  Her  name  is  IVIrs.  Barre,  and  my  name  is  Mary 
Barre.     I'm  her  little  daughter." 

"  And  how  old  are  you,  child  ?  "  he  inquired,  looking 
away,  over  the  water. 

"  I  shall  be  a  bi;;  girl  pretty  soon.  I'm  going  on  six. 
That's  pretty  big,  isn't  it?  Mamma  says  I  shall  be  a 
woman  pretty  soon,  if  I  live,  because  my  pnpa's  gone." 

Mr.  Debree,  at  these  words,  looked  back  at  the  child, 
and  said,  "  Where  is  he  gone  ?  " 

She  answered  as  if  she  were  sure  of  having  made  a 
friend  of  him,  "  I  think  he's  gone  up  in  the  sky ;  for  my 
mamma  wears  black  clothes,  and  cries  sometimes ;  and 
iliat's  what  people  do  when  some  one  goes  up  in  the  sky. 
I  think  he's  been  gone  about  thirty  years."  This  last  she 
said  with  tho  same  innocent  confidence  as  the  rest ;  lavish- 
ing the  time  like  any  other  treasure  of  unknown  worth. 

Her  companion  did  not  smile,  but  stood  and  looked  at 
her,  and  then  turned  again  and  walked  away ;  and  the 
little  thing,  as  if  satisfied  with  having  established  so  much 
of  an  acquaintance  as  to  have  let  him  know  who  she  was, 
and  how  old,  turned  up  the  path,  without  looking  back. 

Presently  she  was  singing  at  the  top  of  her  voice,  as 
she  sat  upon  a  stone  : — 


The  iceberg  f 'oats,  all  still  and  st'ong, 
From  the  hiixl  of  ice  and  snow: 

Full  fifty  fallom  above  the  sea, 
Two  hundred  fallom  below." 


Then  as  if  her  little  rhyme  had  been  a  sacred  hymn,  from 
Holy  Writ  or  the  Church  Service,  she  added,  "  Glory  be 
to  tlie  Father,  and  to  the  Son,  and  to  the  Holy  Ghost, — in 
the  beginning, — ever  shall  be.  world  avout  end.  Amen." 

The  children,  who  had  been  i)h»ying  or  i)icking  berries. 


92 


TUB  NEW  rillKST. 


I  ' 


close  at  Imiiil,  st.artcd  up  like  a  eovey  of  birds,  and  joined 
little  IMary,  and  the  "  woman  with  the  red  ribbon,"  who 
was  not  far  olV,  came  at  almost  the  same  moment. 

"  What  was  'e  saying  to  'ee,  lovey  ?  "  and  "  what  did  'e 
come  back  for  ? "  and  "  what  did  he  tell  'ec  about  a 
prastc  ?  "  "  Do  you  know  him  ?  "  and  other  like,  were  the 
cloud  of  questions  that  swarmed  about  little  IMary  from 
the  woman  and  the  children  ;  the  woman  not  forgetting  at 
the  same  time,  to  put  the  straw  hat  which  had  been  hang- 
ing, as  we  said,  from  our  little  acijuaintance's  neck,  into 
its  proper  i)lace  upon  her  head. 

From  amidst  this  swarm  of  sharp  interrogatories,  IMary 
started  ofl'  to  llee.  She  fell  and  scattered  a  good  mjiny  of 
her  berries  before  she  got  far,  gatluired  uj)  as  many  as 
she  could,  before  the  company,  which  followed  slowly, 
overtook  her,  and  then  managed  to  keep  in  front  of  them, 
and  then  of  such  as  were  left  of  them,  (for  they  dropped 
oft'by  degrees,)  until  she  I'eached  her  home. 

Mrs.  Barre,  in  receiving  her,  thanked  the  woman  who 
had  kept  her  in  sight,  and  bought,  at  the  same  time,  some 
quarts  of  berries,  by  way  of  returning  a  favor  ;  then  took 
Mary  up  in  her  arms,  and  hurried  to  hear  her  account  of 
her  doings. 

"  Please  ma'am,"  called  the  Avorthy  neiglilior  after  her, 
"  there  was  a  gentleman  stopped  and  talked  wi'  she  some 
while.  He  said  no  harm,  [  don't  think,  tor  I  kept  anighst 
'em,  but  'e  was  this  'am'  handsome-looking  praste  that's 
corned,  as  tiny  says,  to  live  in  the  harbor ;  *is  namci's 
somethin,  I  don'  rightly  mind  ;  and  he  gave  her  bit  of  a 
posey,  ef  she's  a-got  'n  now." 

Tne  mother  thanked  her  again,  and  for  informing  her 
of  the  child's  talking  with  that  gentleman,  saying  she 
would  ask  about  her  afternoon's  adventures. 


A  MEKTINQ. 


93 


To  this  the  little  adventurer  herself,  fresh  from  the  ex- 
citement, assented  very  cordially. 

"I  talked  very  kindly  to  him,  mamma,"  said  JMary, 
when  they  were  alone  together,  inside.  "I  told  him  I 
was  your  little  girl,  and  he  wanted  to  know  what  a  Ko- 
mis'  pries'  was,  jmd  I  told  him  I  thought  he  was  a  Komis' 
pries' ;  and  he  asked  me  whether  my  papa  was  gone  up  in 
the  sky." 

"  Are  you  sorry  that  your  papa  is  gone  ?  "  asked  Mrs. 
Barre. 

"  Yes,  I  always  am  sorry ;  why  do  you  ask  me  that  a 
great  many  times,  mamma  ?  " 

"Sometimes  I  forge.;  and  I  want  you  to  love  Heav- 
enly Father  very  much,  and  pray  to  llim.  Wjiere  is  the 
flower  he  gave  you,  darling?  " 

"There  it  is,  mamma,  and  I'll  give  it  to  you,"  said  the 
little  one,  dragging  it  forth  from  among  her  berries. 

"  Thank  you,  love,"  said  her  mother,  kissing  her,  and 
taking  the  flower,  which  she  did  not  give  back. 


91 


THE  iNLW   i'iiJEiir. 


CHAPTER  X. 


SOME   GOSSIP   AND    SOMG   REAL    LIFB. 


I? 


'^'^  F  an  outlandish  friirMlc  had  come  in  and  furled  hor 
broad  sails,  and  dropju'd  licr  heavy  anchors,  and 
swunjij  round  to  them,  with  iier  strange  colors  flying, 
and  lowenid  away  a  half  dozen  hiack  boats,  and  held  them 
in  tow  Mt  her  side  and  astern,  and  lay  there,  with  foreign- 
looking  marines  pacing  in  her  main  chains,  and  a  crowd 
of  foreigners  swarming  on  her  decks,  there  would  have 
been  some  stir  in  the  quiet  little  town  of  Peterport,  and 
its  (piiet  neighborhood.  The  pciople  would,  probably, 
have  managed  to  go  out  to  the  ledge  to  fish,  and  the 
women  would,  i)robably,  have  contrived  to  spread  and 
turn  their  lish  on  the  flakes,  and  hoe  their  gardens, — all 
besides  gratifying  their  curiosity;  and  those  who  might 
come  from  afar  to  gaze  upon,  and  ask,  and  talk  about,  the 
outlanders,  would,  probably,  get  through  their  usual  day's 
work  besides  ;  but,  far  and  neai',  and  for  a  long  time,  the 
thing  would  be  in  their  thoughts  and  in  their  talk,  on 
land  and  on  wa'er,  at  flake  and  at  fii-eside. 

So  it  w.as  with  the  coming  of  the  Romish  priest  to 
Peterport.  The  people  talked,  and  wondei-ed,  and  feared ; 
and  some  one  or  two  of  the  warmer-spirited  wives  pro- 
posed to  have  him  driven  off. 

Mr.  O'Rourke,   the    Roman    Catholic   merchant,   was 


SOME  GOSSIP  AND   SOME  REAL  LIFE. 


05 


»g> 


was 


either  seen  more,  or  more  observed,  and  the  remaining 
people  of  his  persuasion,  planters  and  others,  were  thought 
to  have  (very  naturally)  an  air  of  more  than  common 
confidence  and  satisfaction.  Still  more  was  this  supposed 
to  be  the  case  in  Castle  Bay,  where,  though  the  i)lace 
itself  was  less  considerable,  the  number  of  Roman  Cath- 
olics was  twice  as  large. 

Young  Urston's  case,  and  the  epidemic  that  h.ad  settled 
itself  in  Marchants'  Cove,  and  seemed,  now,  to  have  laid 
hold  on  Lucy  liarbury,  divi(l(;d,  with  the  other  tojiic,  the 
public  mind  of  Peterport.  There  was  a  general  wish 
that  the  l*arson  were  in  the  harbor,  as  well  for  the  sake 
of  the  sick,  (of  whom,  though  none  died,  yet  several  were 
alfected  with  a  lasting  delirium,)  as  for  the  safeguard  of 
the  j)hu'e  against  the  invasion  of  the  adverse   priest. 

The  uppor  circle  was  .-i  small  one: — The  Clergymnn, 
the  widoweil  Mis.  liarro,  the  Worners,  and  Miss  Dare  ;  the 
merchant -stipendiary-magistrate -and -churchwarden,  Mr. 
Naughton;  Mr.  Skipland,  a  merchant;  Mr.  McLauren, 
the  other  churchwarden,  living  near  Frank's  Cove, — a 
worthy  Irishman, — (the  three  latter  being  unmarried 
men,)  and,  lastly,  the  OTlourkes,  Roman  Catholics,  made 
the  whole  round.  The  members  of  it  had  some  subjects 
of  interest  beside,  but  they  had  chiefly  the  same  as  those 
that  occupied  the  planters. 

Of  course  the  harbor  heard,  from  open  mouth  to  open 
ear,  the  story  of  the  widowed  lady's  strange  interview 
with  the  Romish  priest ;  nor  was  there  little  speculation 
about  the  unknown  tie  that  bound,  or  had  bound,  them  to 
each  other.  They  had  not  met  again,  and  he  was  seldom 
seen  by  day ;  sometimes,  at  night.  Some  said,  of  course, 
that  "he  walked  in  darkness."  She,  too,  was  not  seen 
often. 


I 


9G 


THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


Bl     i 


Miss  Dare  came  and  went  as  ever.  Only  wliat  follows 
of  what  was  said  and  done  between  her  and  Mrs.  Barre. 
concerns  our  story. 

As  she  came  in,  late  on  the  afternoon  of  little  Mary's 
walk,  her  friend  answered  her  first  question,  which  was 
rather  anxious, — 

"  Do  you  know,  my  dear  Mrs.  Barre,  how  you've 
changed  within  a  few  days  ?  You  must  try  to  rest ;  cer- 
tainly not  undertake  new  labor." 

"  I  don't  know,"  answered  Mrs.  l^arre,  "  that  I'm  not 
as  well  as  usual ; "  but  there  was  an  anxiousness  in  her 
eyes,  and  a  careworn  look  about  her  face,  as  well  as  a 
nervous  agita  Ion  in  her  manner. 

"  You  won't  insist,  now,  upon  watching  with  Lucy 
Barbury  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  I  would  really  rather.  It  would  be  a  relief,  as 
well  as  a  satisfaction  to  me,"  said  Mrs.  Barre. 

"  Well ;  th'jn,  I'll  go  back  to  my  aunt's,  and  come  down 
after  tea." 

So  saying,  Miss  Dare  took  her  leave. 

Late  in  the  moonlight  evening,  she  walked  with  her 
friend  (there  is  no  danger  here)  towards  Skipper  George's. 
There  were  no  people  in  the  road ;  but  as  Miss  Dare  felt 
a  quiver  in  the  hand  that  lay  on  her  arm,  she  noticed,  a 
good  way  off,  a  man  whose  gait  and  figure  were  remark- 
able, and,  as  they  drew  nearer,  recognized  him  as  the 
Romish  Priest.  No  greeting  or  sign  of  any  sort  passed 
between  them. 

As  the  lady  came,  pale  and  thoughtful-looking,  out  of 
the  night  into  the  house  where  Lucy  Barbury  lay  sick, 
the  father,  with  his  manly  and  dignified  respect,  welcomed 
her  from  his  heart.  The  mother,  overwatched  and  over- 
wearied, was  })ersuaded  to  go  to  bed  ;  but  Skipper  George 
kept  his  place,  quietly. 


SOMK   GOSSIP  AND   SOME   REAL   LIFE. 


1)7 


her 


)ut  of 
pick, 
omed 
over- 
eorge 


Theiv;  was  scarco,  any  sound,  except  from  tlic  t^ick 
maiden,  who  very  constantly  spoke  jv  strove  to  sing. 

As  once  a  liglit  was  carried  in  and  used  about  her,  it 
was  a  touching  sight  to  sec  tlie  girl  who  lately  was  so  glad. 

A  wet  cloth  commonly  lay  on  her  forehead,  shading 
her  eyes  and  hiding  a  good  deal  of  her  face.  When  it 
was  taken  off,  it  could  be  seen  what  work  the  fever  had 
been  doing.  To  be  sure,  her  rich  black  hair  poured  oiit 
from  under  her  white  cap  like  a  stream,  and  the  soft,  long 
fringes  of  the  lids  sprend  over  lu'r  half-closed  eyes  like  a 
soft  fern-spray  over  the  littU;  pool  at  the  tree's  foot ;  and 
the  bending  neck  and  sloping  siioulders,  over  which  her 
white  night-dress  was  drawn  and  heh^  by  a  button,  were 
still  beautiful ;  but  the  eyes  were  deeply  sunk,  and  the 
face  was  thin,  and  the  lips  chapped  and  parched. 

Her  kerchief  and  other  things,  that  had  looked  so 
prettily  upon  her,  lay  with  her  prayer-book  on  a  chair  at 
hand. 

During  the  night  she  do/ed,  sometimes,  and  generally 
her  voice  was  heard  in  the  low  raving  of  half-sleep.  It 
poured  forth  as  steadily  as  water  in  a  stream,  and  as 
changing  and  as  formless ;  bright  thoughts  and  strange 
fancies,  and  sweet  words ;  being  and  hope,  and  beauty 
and  happiness,  and  home  and  sadness ;  prayer,  song, 
chant ;  things  far  off  and  things  near,  things  high  and  low. 

So  the  slow  hours  of  night  passed ;  and  the  pale,  sad 
lady,  the  body  of  whose  child  had  been  so  lately  laid 
deep  in  the  earth,  ministered. 

In  the  carhe3t  morning,  about  four  o'clock,  a  neighbor- 
woman  came,  and  the  fisherman  gently  insisted  on  seeing 
Mrs.  Barre  home. 

She  slept  late  into  the  day. 


08 


TUK  NKW   rUIEttl. 


CHAPTER  XI. 


TWO   MHKT   AGAIN. 


US.  HAKUK  had  rostod,  afllor  licr  wafch,  and 
['  oarly  in  llie  at'U'rnoon  slio  walked  out,  down 
iho  harbor;  tliis  time  alone.  She  passed  JMar- 
chants'  C'ove,  and  turn,  and  hill,  and  narrow  way,  to 
Franiis'  C'ove ;  an«l  erossinj;  th<^  stile,  and  ffoinjj  alonir 
the  meadow-pat ii,  and  thron;;h  tiie  ^or^ije  of  the  nionntain 
of  roek,  slu*  stood  in  Mad  Cove.  Tiic  stony  slope  went 
steeply  hollowinjj;  down  to  the  littli^  shelf  of  land  at  the 
water-side  ;  the  ridge  of  roek  went  along  to  the  left,  and 
ended  in  the  tall  elitts  at  the  sea;  near  her  was  the 
widow  Frenev's  honse ;  a  little  farther  down,  to  the  left, 
the  hovel  of  Tom  Somerset ;  and  down  at  the  bottom  of 
the  slope  were  the  eight  or  ten  honses  of  the  other  people, 
and  the  flakes  of  tlu^  whole  eolony. 

What  dilference  there  is  between  yesterday  and  to-day  ! 
The  great  earth  has  tnrned  over  its  tv.cMity-four  thousand 
miles  of  land  and  sea,  eities  and  woods  and  deserts,  be- 
tween ;  twilight,  darkness,  day,  have  come  between  ; 
where  a  breath  would  have  reached  yesterday,  there  may 
be,  now,  wide  waves  and  storms  between. 

Mrs.  Barre  stood  thinking  or  remembering  at  the  verge 
of  the  cove. 

By  and  by  she  drew  near  to  ISIrs.  Freney's  house,  and 
knocked. 


,  ) 


TWO   MKKT   AGAIN. 


!)!) 


verge 


\e,  and 


Tho  priests  of  the  Roin.'in  Catholio  <lenorptnation  <lo 
not  visit  generally  ainoiiir  ihvlr  ))('0|>l<',  unless  to  adminis- 
ter saerainents;  hut  as  tlie  door  <>|>(Mie(l,  Father  ])ehr<!e 
was  staudin;j5  I'aciu;^  it,  as  pah;  and  sad  as  tjje  pale  sad 
lady  who  nnexpeeledly  eonlVontrd  iiini.  She  started  at 
the  suddenness  of  the  siglit,  elosed  her  eyes  for  an  instant, 
but  stood  where  slje  was. 

There  was  a  Ukeness  of  face  and  expression,  beyond 
that  of  the  sadness  and  paleness,  and  of  fij^urc  and  bear- 
ing, also.  There  w.'ts  the  same  high  foreh(!ad,  and  (exeept 
that  hers  were  darker)  the  same  full,  thoughtful,  feeling 
eyes. 

«  Must  this  be  ?  "  he  said. 

"  It  IS  ;  beyond  all  hope  ! "  she  answered. 

"How  can  you  hoi)e  it?" 

"  How  can  I  any  thing  else  ?  "  she  said  ;  "  I  have  but 
one  chief  object  in  life." 

"  But  what  should  bring  us  together,  if  there  be  no 
longer  a  common  faith  ?  " 

"  That  there  may  be  ! " 

"  I  did  not  know  that  I  must  meet  this,  in  coming 
to  this  far-off  place ! "  the  other  said.  "  I  cannot  feel 
the  drawing  of  old  ties ! — I  cannot  see  you  ! " 

There  was  nothing  like  sternness  or  hardness  in  his 
way  of  saying  this,  but  of  gentle,  fixed  resolve. 

"  I  must !  I  must,  while  I  have  life ! "  ahe  eaid,  not 
loudly  but  most  earnestly. 

Mrs.  Freney  stood,  a  silent  and  amazed  listener ;  and 
the  children  looked  up,  wondering. 

"  I  beg  pardon,  Mrs.  Fr  ney,"  said  the  lady ;  "  I  came 
to  ask  about  your  child." 

Mrs.  Freney  was  so  )ewildered,  that  she  scarce  knew 
what  to  answer  :-^ 


IIU) 


TIIK  NKW   PIMMsr. 


"  SIh»'h  (Inin^r  wril,  (liimk'«M»,  Mu'nin  ; — I  mciiii,  lir'n 
min'li  iIh'  sMiiic." 

l-'Mllicr  Di'hn'c  siiiil,  liiniiiij;  lo  her  (nol  wIiIkmiI  n<^i<ji- 
lion)  : — 

*'  H' V(»ii  vnw  pnid  vcmr  «'l(I('s(  cliiM  willi  me,  I  will  Hvud 
lnu'k  l»y  lnT  1\V(»  or  llirrc  Ijlllr  (liinn;^  lor  her  lirolliorl" 

Ajiuin  Mrs.  llniiv  s|m»I\(' : — 

"  \\u\  1  sIimII  not  follow  voii  Oirllior  (liini  just  oiilsido 
tlio  door:  Itnt  I  iiinsi  smv  soiuotiiino  more,  now  (iod  Ium 
fjixt'n  nu'  o|t|)ortunilv." 

"  (V'TlMinlv,"  ho  jinswon'd  ;  "  I  cinnot  bo  hsirHli  or  r\uh) 
to  you.  1  will  liom*.  this  on«'<>,  and  hiin;^  all  to  an  ond. 
(\)nu>.  child  !  }Xo  <»n  !  " 

'riio  ;iirl  opcnod  iho  dooi*  and  |>ass(»d  out  ;  tho  lady 
^laNcly  bowed  to  i\Irs.  l-'iv-noy  and  tbilowod,  and  KalJHT 
J)«>br(M».  loa\iniL;  a  blossin^r  in  tho  Imnso,  wont  last. 

lb>  bade  tho  irirl  sit  down  npon  a  sloiu',  and  walkiu}^  a 
IV'W  |>a«'os  onward,  slopped  to  talk  with  iNIrs.  liai'i'o. 


"  Why  shonld  w«'  meet  ?"  he  aske<l. 

"  Why  shonld  W(>  meet  !      How  am  we  lud) 


»  n»eetn»!jr. 


hf 


if  tluM'e  ho  he.'iven  and  hell  herearter,  and  il'onr  Lilo  and 
D<'ath  (lepend  upon  our  duty  «lone  or  undone  ?  1  havo 
not  ohanjr«'d ;  what  1  was,  I  am." 

"All  human  ti<*s  arc  1oos(mI  from  me,"  ho  said.  "To 
do  a  ]ui(^st's  work  is  my  oidy  duty,  and  my  otdy  wish.  I 
cannot,  ovoi\  in  momory,  rooall  any  othor  tio." 

"  What  !  is  all  oomnion  life  and  happiness  and  hope 
and  duty — is  every  thinjjj  that  bound  us  to«jjether,  perished 
forever?  Can  you  strike  it  away,  because  you  will  not 
have  it  ? — It  all  lives,  here,"  she  continued,  laying  her 
two  hands  on  her  bosom,  "and  will  not  die  !" 

"  But  it  is  dead  with  me  !  "  he  answered. 

A  pang,  as  from  a   winged  arrow,  seemed  to  shoot 


TWO   MKI'Vr   A(}\FN. 


101 


(liroiifijli  Iior ;  but  w!n^ri  h\u>  upoko,  Iht  voicn  wuh  little 
ln'okcii. 

"  It  miiy  br  ho!"  Kbo  Hftid.  •' ()  Wiillrr  !  I  j-laitn  no 
love.  I  do  not  nsk  for  it.  I  only  lisk  that  tlicro  hIihII 
not  b<>  ii  wnii  bardcr  tliati  iron  between  us  !  I  only  nsk 
tlial  I  in.'iy  liavr  Iciivc,  lioni  timo  lo  lim<i — only  from 
tini<>  t(t  tiinr — to  Hpcak  to  yon,  or  write  to  yon,  and  that 
you  will  bear  and  answn*  mo  !  That  is  not  nun-li  ! — not 
nnicli  from  you  lo  nic !  Jf  you  ar<3  an  you  nay,  it  cannot 
burt  you! — Waller!   Waller!" 

Ilcr  eyes  were  only  full  of  learn. 

I  lis  faee  (juivered  ;  bis  frame  was  nbaken. 

"  No,  1  eami<»l  !  "  b<^  said  ;  "  it  must  not  be  !  It  is  im- 
[>ossible  !  " 

"  Hut  r  ]»eseeeli  you,  for  (lod's  sak<! !"  sbe  said,  clasp- 
in;j;  ber  two  bands  to  bim. 

'•  No  !  "  be  answered.    "  For  ( lod's  sak(«,  T  must  not !  " 

Tears  stood  in  bis  eyes  ;  bow  could  be  binder  tlu^m  ! 

"Ob!"  she  cried,  elosin}jj  ber  eyes,  and  casting  down 
ber  face. 

"  Even  us  a  priest,  you  niifj^bt  j^rant  me  tins  !  " 

"  As  a  priest,  I  cannot  do  it !  Ob  !  do  not  tbink  it 
cruelly  or  bardness  of  heart ;  my  very  beart  is  being 
eaten  out ; — but  1  cannot !  " 

She  left  him,  instantly,  and  walked  veiy  hurriedly 
away. 

On,  on,  en  she  went ;  up  the  harbor,  as  she  had  come  ; 
into  her  own  pretty  little  yard,  into  her  house,  up  to  her 
chamber. 

Little  IMary  came  running  into  her  mother's  loora,  but 
Btopped  ;  for  her  mother  was  kneeling  at  a  chair,  liolding 
a  letter. 

The  child  went  down  upon  her  little  knees  at  another 


II 


10. 


THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


h    I' 


Wfi^-iM'i 


chair,  laying  her  check  down  upon  her  arm,  with  her  face 
toward  her  mother,  and  pretty  soon  beginning  to  play 
gently  with  the  coral  beads  about  her  neck. 

As  Mrs.  Barre  rose,  she  came  across  and  set  her  lips 
upon  the  forehead  of  her  pretty  little  daughter,  and 
smoothed  her  hair. 

"  Now,  darling,"  said  she,  "  do  you  think  you  can  do 
an  errand  for  me  exactly  as  I  tell  you  ?  '*  As  she  spoke 
she  folded  the  letter  in  white  paper. 

'*  Oh  yes,  mamma  ! "  said  Mary,  eagerly,  "  I'm  sure  I 
can." 

"  There's  a  gentleman  coming  along,  and  you're  to  run 
after  him  and  give  him  this,  and  tell  him  it  belongs  to 
him ;  and  then  you're  to  run  back  as  fast  as  you  can ; 
and  don't  stop  for  any  thing.     Can  you  ?  " 

The  little  ambassadress  was  sure  that  she  could  do  just 
as  she  was  bid,  and  Mrs.  Barre  reiterated  her  instruc- 
tions : — 

"Mind;  you're  not  to  stop  for  any  thing.  If  he 
speaks  to  you,  or  calls  you,  you're  to  run  back  to  me  as 
fast  as  you  can." 

The  child  assented,  and  repeated  her  mother's  words. 

"  It's  a  costly  thing ! "  said  Mrs.  Barre,  looking  forth, 
as  if  from  the  quay  her  eyes  were  following  towards  the 
far  oflP,  fateful  ocean,  the  full-sailed  ship  that  bore  her  all 
in  one  venture. 

"  Now,  dear !  Quick !  There  he's  going — don't  for- 
get ! "  she  exclaimed,  breathless.  "  Run !  and  come 
straight  back ! "  The  priest  whom  she  had  met  in  Mad 
Cove  was  just  passing. 

Little  Mary  ran  down  stairs,  and  then  out  upon  the 
road,  with  her  golden  curls  shaking  and  shining  in  the 
sunlight.     The  gentleman  turned  and  took  the  parcel 


|!     Mi 


TWO   MEET  AGAIN. 


103 


from  her  hand ;  then,  having  opened  it,  looked  after  her, 
as  if  he  wou]  ^  call ;  but  prese;nly  he  turned  again  and 
walked  on. 

Little  Mary  only  varied  a  little  from  her  orders.  Hav- 
ing run  away  from  him  as  fast  as  she  could  run,  she 
stopped,  as  a  bird  might  stop,  and  looked  back  ;  but  he 
did  not  turn  again,  so  she  came  in. 

This  timo,  too,  as  before,  her  mother  was  upon  her 
knees,  and  the  child  stood  looking  out  of  the  window. 
As  her  mother  rose,  she  said : — 

"  That's  the  same  one  I  saw  the  other  day,  mamma !  '* 
Her  mother  was  thinking  her  own  thoughts. 

Mary  had  a  child's  way : 

"  Why  do  you  cry  so  much,  when  my  papa's  gone  up 
'n  sky,  and  brother  Willie  ?  "  she  asked. 

Mrs.  Barre  wept  silently.  The  little  prattler  went  on 
prattling 

"  If  I  could  go  up  there,  I'd  ask  Heavenly  Father 
where  my  papa  was.  He'd  know,  wouldn't  He,  mamma  ? 
Heavenly  Father  would  know,  because  He  knows  every 
thing.  He'd  show  me  my  papa ;  and  I'd  go  up  to  him 
and  say,  '  I'm  your  little  girl  Mary,  that  you  left  at 
mamma's  house  when  you  came  up  here/  and  then  he'd 
know  me." 

The  little  thing  was  not  satisfied  with  the  silent  acqui- 
escence that  she  got. 

"  Mamma !  Mamma ! "  she  exclaimed,  "  I  saw  little 
brother  Willie ! " 

"When,  dearit?"  asked  her  mother,  now  heeding 
her. 

"  Just  now, — a  little  while  ago, — and  he  leaded  me  by 
my  hand  near  to  where  Heavenly  Father  was  sitting 
on  his  great  chair.     Then  Heavenly  Father  got  up  and 


104 


THE  NKW  PUIEST. 


oponcd  liis  closot  and  look  down  ono  of  our  little  boy's 
play  things,  and  gave  it  to  our  little  Willie  ; — (He  didn't 
give  any  to  nie  ;)  but  lie  looked  at  Willie's  little  sister 
as  if  He  was  glad  to  see  me.  Little  WilUe  knew  who  I 
was,  mamma,  because  Ik;  saw  my  paper." 

"What  paper,  darling?"  asked  her  mother,  entirely 
oeoupied  with  the  ehild's  story. 

'*  INIy  paper — don't  you  know  ?  That  you  writed 
*  INfarv  Barre '  on,  for  your  little  girl.  I  throwed  it  away 
uj)  in  sky,  and  wind  blew  it  away  up,  so  Willie  could  see 
it  ;  and  Willie  knev/  what  little  girl  it  was." 

"  Come  with  me,  you  dear  little  dreamer!"  said  Miss 
Dare,  who  suddenly  appeannl  at  the  door;  and,  snatching 
uj»  Mary,  she  carried  her  oft'. 

She  set  the  child  under  the  bowery  branches  of  a 
seringa,  and  stood  among  the  shrubs  and  floating  sprays 
of  creepers,  which  she  had  a  year  before  gathered  about 
the  house,  a  fairer  thing  than  the  sunshine  that  was  play- 
ing among  them  ;  and  she  sang  for  the  child's  pleasure  a 
song  broken  into  pauses  now  '"id  then,  much  as  the  sun- 
shine was,  here  and  there,  broken  into  shade.  Perhaps 
our  readers  have  seen  or  will  see  how  the  song  may  have 
been  sujiirested. 


'eo" 


"  Woe  for  the  brave  ship  Orient! 
Woe  for  the  old  ship  Orient! 
For  in  brond,  broad  light, 
With  the  land  in  sight, — 
W'here  the  waters  bubbled  white, — 
One  great,  sharp  shriek !  —One  shudder  of  affright  I 
And— 

down  went  the  brave  old  ship,  tJio  Orient !  " 

Her  voice  was  a  fine,  full  alto,  never  needing  any 
effort,  but  now  apparently  kept  low,  for  Mary's  ear.  The 
air  which  she  very  likely  adapted   to  the  words,  was 


any 
The 
was 


TWO   MEET   AGAIN. 


105 


much  tlio  samo  in  gi'iicral  jis  that  of  the  '  Bonny  liouse  o' 
Airlie;'  and  her  voic'«;  IKiw  upward  and  flitlcd  from  part 
to  part  auionji;  the  words,  as  a  hird  from  bough  to  bough ; 
but  the  song  all  hved  in  the  singing. 

The  shriek  seemed  to  s[)ht  tiie  air,  and  the  shudder  to 
be  shaking  strong  hearts,  and  a,  wail-  to  wander  sadly 
over  the  sea,  where  the  good  ship  had  foundered.  She 
paused  here  for  a  while,  and  then  began  again  in  a  sweet, 
tripping  measure : — 

"  It  wivs  the  fjiirest  day  in  tbo  mnrry  montlj  of  May, 
And  sloopiticss  had  settled  on  the  seas; 
And  wo  Iiad  our  wliite  sail  set, — high  up  and  higlier  yet, — 
And  our  flau;  flashed  and  fluttered,  at  its  ease; 
The  Cross  of  St.  (Jeorj^e,  that  in  mountain  and  in  porfjc, — 
On  the  hot  and  diKity  plain, — on  the  tiresome,  trackless,  mam — 
Conqneriiifj;  out, — contjuering  home  again, — 
Had  flamed,  tiie  world  over,  on  the  breeze." 

However  it  was  that  she  fitted  the  music  to  the  words, 
it  seemed  much  as  if  every  line  took  its  own  formi  in 
leaving  the  singer's  lips,  in  the  fittest  melody. 

•'  Ours  was  the  far- famed  Albion, 
And  she  had  her  best  look  of  might  and  beauty  on, 
As  she  swept  across  the  seas  that  day. 
The  wmd  was  fair  and  soft,  both  alow  and  aloft, 
Aiid  we  wore  the  idle  hours  away." 

A  straying  lock  of  her  own  hair  was  tossed  by  the 
playful  wind  between  her  lips,  and  she  stood  silent  again ; 
— the  little  girl  clambered  to  the  top  of  the  fence  and 
seated  herself  there. 

"  Please  sing,  cousin  Fanny ! "  she  said,  when  she  was 
seated.     Miss  Dare  sang  again : — 

"  The  steadying  sun  lieavcd  up,  as  day  drew  on, 
And  there  grew  along  swell  of  the  sea; 

(which  seemed  to  grow  %n  her  singing,  too,) 


•I 


106 


THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


n 


And,  first  in  upper  air,  then  under,  everywhere. 

From  the  topmost,  towering  sail,  down,  down  to  quarter-rail, 

The  wind  began  to  breatlie  more  free. 
*Ho!  Ililloa!  A  sail!'  was  the  topraan's  hail— 
•  A  sail,  hull  down,  upon  our  lee ! ' 

Then,  with  sea-glass  to  his  eye, 

And  his  gi-ay  locks  blowing  by, 

The  Admiral  guessed  what  she  might  be ; 

And  from  top  and  from  deck.  Was  it  ship?  Was  it  wreck? 

A  far  off,  far  off  speck. 

Of  a  sudden  we  found  upon  our  lee." 

"  Here  comes  Mr.  Naughton  !  "  said  the  child  from  her 
perch,  like  the  topman  from  his  lookout ;  "  and  somebody's 
with  him, — it's  James  Urston !  " 

Miss  Dare  hastened  to  take  the  little  one  down ;  and 
as  she  was  retreating  into  the  house,  the  voice  of  the  mer- 
chant-churchwarden-and-magistrate  was  heard,  urging 
upon  the  young  lover,  who  had  abandoned  his  preparation 
for  the  Romish  priesthood,  the  excellence  of,  a  life  of  celi- 
bacy; and  regretting  that  Mr.  Wellon  (though  he  was 
unmarried,  certainly)  was  not  under  the  obligations  of  a 
vow. 

Miss  Dare's  song  was  broken  off. 


A  SAD   YOUNG  UKAKT. 


107 


CHAPTER  XII. 


A   SAD   TO  UNO   HEART. 


)HAT  quiet  day  was  passing  down  to  quiet  night ; 
the  sun  was  near  his  setting,  as  young  Urston 
came  alone  along  the  road  and  took  one  of  the 
paths  that  led  up  over  the  hill  to  the  Backside. 

He  started  at  his  name,  called  in  a  cracked  voice,  like 
that  of  a  parrot,  at  his  very  shoulder ;  and,  turning  his 
head,  saw  that  he  was  passing  unaware  a  group  of  two 
old  women,  who  were  standing  against  a  fence,  probably 
chaffing  about  the  gossip  of  the  harbor,  or  croning  over 
memories  of  the  time  when  they  (old  withered  bodies !) 
were  the  young.  There  are  more  of  these  old  people 
here  than  anywhere,  almost,  so  many  overlive  the  three- 
score years  and  ten.  One  of  these  elders  was  the  Granny 
Pilchard,  a  woman  whose  quickness  and  activity  were 
not  exhausted  yet,  by  a  long  use  of  eighty-one  years  of 
changing  seasons,  and  as  changeful  scenes  of  life.  The 
other  gossip  was  "  Old "  Granny  Frank,  as  she  was 
called,  though  younger  than  her  comrade  by  full  seven 
years.  The  title  "  Granny,"  common  to  them  both,  is  as 
well  a  medical  and  professional  distinction,  in  Newfound- 
land, as  one  implying  age.  Granny  Pilchard  held  at 
this  moment  a  pitcher  in  her  hand,  which  the  young  man 
knew  out  of  a  hundred, — a  little  white  one,  with  just  a 


k 


108 


THE  NKW  PRIEST. 


slender  line  of  blue  alotig  the  brim.     At  least  lie  might 
have  known  it,  and  wliat  fair  hand  had  often  borne  it. 

"  Good  evening,  Granny,  and  you.  Granny  Frank," 
he  said,  rather  impatiently,  as  if  he  did  not  wish  to  stop. 
When  we  have  met  with  such  a  thing  as  had  lately  hap- 
pened to  young  Urston,  and  wish  to  be  alone,  we  have  at 
the  same  time  (at  all  events  the  young  have,  if  not  all 
of  us)  an  appreiiension  that  it  is  ail  written  in  English 
on  our  faces,  or  has  been  overheard,  or  carried  by  the 
wind  or  winged  birds  ;  perhaps  James  Urston  thought 
so. 

"  Thou'rt  goun  up  over.  Mister  Jemmie  Urston,  I 
think,"  continued  Graimy  Palasher,  (this  was  her  vernac- 
ular name,)  in  pursuance  of  her  object  in  addressing  him, 
"  and  'ee'Il  most  likely  want  to  stop  and  hear  for  'eeself ; 
and  so  Missis  Frank  says  I'm  wantun  up  at  Rivei'head, 
she  thinks,  and  'ee'll  plase  take  this  ])itcher  u})  to  she.  It's 
a  marsel  o'  water  out  o'  Ilar-pool  she  wanted,"  (it  will  be 
remembered,  as  James,  no  doubt,  remembered,  how  he 
drank  out  of  that  spring  that  morning,)  "  and  Fve  abin 
and  got  un.  'Ee  see  he's  so  fresh  and  clear  as  the  blue 
sky,  in  a  manner.  I  wouldn'  lave  her,  only  the  mother 
'11  be  up,  in  short.  I  s'pose  'ee  baint  afeared  to  see  her 
lovie  ?  an'  nobody  wi'  her  but  the  tother  little  one  ?  Lad3 
didn't  oose  to  be  fear'd  o'  maaids,  when  1  was  one." 

Old  Granny  Frank,  at  this  allusion  to  young  days  and 
their  doings,  gurgled  in  her  throat  with  a  cracked  laugh, 
and,  when  she  could  recover  the  poor  little  wheezy  re- 
mainder of  her  voice  from  its  employment  in  laughing, 
uttered  a  few  shrill  and  grating,  though  not  loud,  words 
with  it,  in  contirmation  of  the  last  remark  of  her  com- 
panion. These  came,  one  after  another,  as  if  they  were 
stamped  and  thrown  out. 


liii':^ 


A   SAD    YOUNG   HEART. 


109 


**  They'd — oosc — to  be — tar-ri-blc — boy-ish — when — 1 
— know'd — *em." 

One  of  the  Mughy  gurgles  came  after  the  wonls,  lik(5 
one  that  had  been  separated  from  its  com[)jinions. 

The  more  vigorous  Granny  Palasher  proceeded. 

"  Now,  will  'ee  be  s6  well  plased  as  " 

"  I'm  in  a  great  hurry,  Graimy,"  interru[)ted  the  young 
man,  not  changing  color,  or  seeming  disconcerted,  but 
with  a  look  of  grave  deterniiuation,  "  and  1  can't  very 
well  call  there  this  evening." 

"Oh!  'Ee  haven'  agot  time;  have  '<;e?"  said  the 
old  woman ;  then  explained  to  Gratniy  Frank :  "  That's 
that  pretty  Lucy  IJarbury,  Granny  !  "  Upon  which  the 
latter  urged  another  laugh  U[)  her  dry  throat,  and  a  few 
more  words. 


(( > 


Mm !     So— I've— ahard  ! " 

"  I  do'no  what  soart  thes'am'  young  folks  are,  now-a- 
days,"  said  Granny  Palasher.  "  Go  thy  w'ys,  then, 
Mister  James  Urston.  I  feeled  for  'ee,  but  mubbe  I'll 
get  another  young  man  I  knows  of,  in  a  minit." 

The  young  man  did  not  stay  for  parley. 

"  You  may  get  whom  you  like,  Granny  Palasher," 
said  he.  "  I  thank  you  for  your  goodwill ;  but  I'm  in  a 
hurry  just  now.  Good-day  !  "  And,  leaving  the  pitcher 
in  the  bearer's  hand,  he  mounted  the  hill  as  fast  as  before. 

The  granny  made  this  comment  on  his  speech  : — 

"  This'am'  yoimg  chap  thinks  a  body  that's  abin  through 
wi'  everything,  don'  know  the  manin'  o'  things  !  " 

The  thin,  cracked  voice  of  old  Granny  Frank  went  up 
after  him  as  he  mounted,  jerking  its  word.-^  : — 

"  Isn'— 'e— a— Ro-man  ?  " 

He  was  not  yet  beyond  hearing,  when  Granny  Palasher 
answered : — 


no 


THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


II 

H 

'f  1; 

,ri  ■■-t: 


"  'Is ;  but  there's  no  danger  o'  she." 

lie  hurried  on,  and  left  the  old  gossips  to  themselves. 
Up  the  path  he  hastened  toward  the  ridge  boimding  the 
meadow,  at  the  farther  side  of  which  stood  Skipper 
George's  house. 

Mounting,  as  the  sun  mounts  up,  seems  fit  work  for  the 
morning.  There  is  a  spring  in  the  strong,  young  body, 
that  almost  throws  it  up  into  the  air ;  and  airy  wings 
seem  to  lift  one  at  either  side.  But  it  was  evening,  and 
this  young  Urston  had  been,  and  was  now  going  through 
a  terrible  trial,  and  there  was  a  heaviness  about  his  mo- 
tions, and  a  sad  paleness  about  his  face,  that  did  not 
belong  to  him. 

As  he  got  up  to  the  edge  of  the  little  meadow,  and  it 
lay  before  him,  with  its  several  less-distinguished  tracks, 
— looking  nc  so  much  like  different  ways,  as  the  same 
one  unstranded, — and  the  house,  backing  against  the  little 
cliff,  he  paused ;  and  it  is  no  wonder.  They  say  that  on 
some  table-land,  among  the  mountains  of  Quito,  lies  a 
gorgeous  city,  in  which  the  old  Indian  race  still  holds  its 
own.  The  roofs  and  battlements  glitter  with  gold ;  for 
the  people  have  kept,  from  father  to  son,  the  secret  of 
richer  mines  than  any  that  the  whites  have  found  in  Cali- 
fornia. Now,  fifty  yards  across  the  meadow,  at  the  edge 
of  which  James  Urston  stood,  glittered  with  many  sheets 
of  glowing  gold,  the  house  in  which  Skipper  George's 
daughter  was  lying  sick.  It  was  a  plain,  unpainted 
house,  and,  at  any  time  when  the  gold,  which  the  morning 
or  evening  sun  laid  on  it,  had  been  taken  off,  was  but  the 
dwelling  of  an  honest,  poor  man.  Yet  he  looked  long ; 
and  it  seemed  as  if  he  dared  not  set  foot  upon  that  mea- 
dow, any  more  than  if  it  and  the  house  were  an  enchanted 
scene.     There  was  not  a  hundred  yards  of  space  between 


A  SAO  YOUNG  HEART. 


Ill 


him  and  the  house ;  but  what  a  world  of  separation  lay 
between  him  and  Skipper  George's  daughter !  The  very 
golden  glare  of  the  sunlight  from  it  in  his  face— now 
fading— increased  the  separation.  The  reflected  glow 
fiided  from  his  person,  and  he  hastily  crossed  the  ridge, 
and  passed  on. 


i 


u. 


112 


THE  NKW   I'RIKST. 


CHAPTER  XIIT. 


A    GUI: AT    LOSS. 


i 


(C/Jr^  N  tliG  niglit  of  the  day  of  wlii(;h  we  have   been 
j1-n|  writing,  (tliat  fifteenth  day  of  August,)  Mr.  Weilon, 

V/  who  had  eome  across,  in  hh  way  home,  from  Por- 
tugal Cove  to  Sandy  Harbor,  in  a  boat  belonging^  tojlie 
latter  place,  was  sitting  late  in  conversation  ymj^^Lr. 
Kewers,  the  clergyman  of  Sandy  Harbor,  when  ^PPenly 
the  '  Society  *  *  schoolmaster,  a  man  of  an  inquiring  and 
excitable  turn  of  mind,  came  knocking  at  the  door,  ar 
announced,  eagerly,  that  some  strange  woi 
going  on  in  Peterport.  He  said  that  lights  were  moving 
about,  and  there  was  an  unusual  noise ;  something  must 
be  the  matter  there  :  it  was  like  tlie  "  Ralls,"  years  ago. 

At  this  intelligence  the  two  clergymen  hastily  started 
forth,  in  company  with  the  schoolmaster,  for  Blazing 
Head, — the  lower  and  back  part  of  Sandy  Harbor, — from 
which  a  view  of  Peterport  (when  it  was  to  be  seen)  could 
be  had.  They  reached,  after  a  few  minutes'  walk,  a  high 
point,  and  saw  the  lights,  like  running  sparks  in  chimney 
soot,  and  heard  plainly,  over  the  water,  in  lulls  of  the  wind, 
the  sound  of  human  voices.  At  this  hour  of  night,  and 
with  the  wind  bringing  in  the  great  murmur  of  the  sen, 
the  far-off  sound  of  human  voices  was  far  more  than  com- 
monly impressive.     Our  pastor  took  hurried  leave. 

*  Of  the  Newfoundland  School  Sooictv. 


A   r.UKAT    LOSS. 


113 


fn  an  liour  (with  his  utmost  speed)  he  was  in  a  pimt 
rowed  stroiijjfly  throii;j;li  a  <lrenL'hiii<r  rain  ;  and,  in  an  h«)ui' 
more,  toiling,  through  raiu  and  night,  to  the  liackside. 

On  the  road  he  met  no  one  as  he  had  met  no  one  in 
IMarchants'  Cove  ;  but  as  he  drew  near  the  meadow  in 
wjjicli  Skij)per  George's  house  stood,  he  heard  women's 
voices,  and  by-and-by  came  upon  u  company,  whom  by 
the  ear,  not  by  the  eye,  he  could  distinguisli  as  Old  Granny 
Frank  and  ot'^ers  of  the  neighbors.  They  recognized 
him,  and  announced  among  themselves,  as  lie  drew  near, 
"  the  Pareson  !  " 

People  in  tliis  country  take  no  heed  of  weather,  (when 
they  have  good  reason  to  be  out,)  except  to  dress  accord- 
ingly. 

"  jK||l|Mrs.  Frank!"  cried  he,  addressing  the  eldest, 
(as  C^^ns  addressed  the  old  man  of  the  chorus,)  but 
turnin^or  answer  to  the  others,  "  what  has  happened  ?  " 

The  old  woman  was  doubtless  making  up  her  mouth 

goealvj   but,   happily,  her  grandson's    wife  spoke  for 

"  Haven'ee  hard  about  Skipper  George's  darter,  sir, — 
that's  Lucy  Barbury, — how  she's  been  atookt  out  of  her 
father's  house,  ever  sunce  last  evenun,  and  never  a  word 
corned  about  her,  sunce,  whatever?" 

"Taken  away!"  exclaimed  the  Parson,  turning  from 
one  to  anotlier  in  amazement,  "  How  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Ts — sir, — an' — her — bed — wi' — her  ;  "  gurgled  the 
Granny,  gaining  her  speech. 

"  They'm  bin  sarchun  all  over,  sir,"  added  Patience 
Frank,  "  an'  Skipper  George  's  inside  now,  w'itun  for 


'ee." 


"  Let  me  see !  "  said  the  pastor,  staying  for  no  further 
talk,  but  hurrvinoj  towards  the  house. 


K 


114 


THE  NKVV   IRIKST. 


The  old  and  yoiin;;  women,  and  others,  loitered  for  a 
little  gossip,  and  to  hear  the  end. 

"  Did  'ee  see  the  Pareson,  Grannie,  wiien  I  told  un? 
Did'ee  see  un  shake  his  head  ?  " 

"  To — be — sure — e — would,"  answered  Old  Granny 
Frank  oracularly. 

"  'E  did  then ;  shookt  it  just  this  w*y,"  continued 
Pati(;nce.     "  What  do  'ee  think.  Granny  ?  " 

"  It — '11 — be — sid,"  answered  the  granny,  in  her  jerky 
way.  "  'E — do!ied — I — two — shillun — worth — o' — good 
•^wi' — a — pr'y'r — e* — made — t'oth-er — d'y." 

"  Did  um,  then  ?     I  shouldn'  wonder  !  " 

"  Wull ! — some — says — an-gels — an' — some — says — 
faa-ir-ies  ; — but — I — knows — what — I — thinks, — "  said 
the  possessor  of  threescore  years  of  observation  ,apd  ex- 
pei-ience.  .)^^||^' 

"All  so.  Granny!"  assented  Patience,  who,  if  she 
should  live  so  long,  was  in  a  fair  way  to  be  as  wise,  "I 
thinks  gezac'ly  the  same." 

"Ay, —  child, —  it — 'II  —  be  —  sid  —  a-fore — ma-ny— 
d'ys — be — up ; "  and  the  old  body  hurried  away,  while 
she  had  her  mystery  entire. 

As  the  two  speakers  separated,  the  little  gathering  drew 
nearer  to  the  cottago-door,  with  new  food  for  speculation 
in  the  granny's  utterance,  which  had,  somehow,  invested 
the  subject  in  a  more  ominous  perplexity  than  before. 

The  clergyman  passed  straight  to  the  chimney,  where 
the  afflicted  father  sat,  among  many  others,  indeed,  but 
the  one  of  them  all.  There  he  was ;  not  even  smoking 
the  accustomed  pipe,  but  with  his  hands  upon  his  knees 
and  his  chin  buried  in  his  breast,  looking  upon  the  kitchen 
fire.  He  did  not  sit  despondently  and  slouchingly,  but 
apright  like  a  man  ;  and  like  a  man  who,  having  done 


i 


A   GKKAT  LOSS. 


Hi 


wlmtevcr  could  be  done  as  yet,  was  waiting  to  set  forth 
again  and  do  whatever  inigiit  be  left  for  man  to  do.  A 
crowd  of  neighbors  made  their  way  in,  after  the  Parson. 
All  but  the  father  rose:  he  neither  saw  nor  heard. 

"*  Peace  be  to  this*  house,'  "  the  pastor  said,  "  '  and  to 
all  that  dwell  in  it.'" 

At  this,  immediately  the  father  took  off  his  weather- 
worn straw  hat  and  stood. 

"  Amen  !  "  he  said  (as  others  with  hira)  ;  presently  add- 
ing, "Sarvant,  sir;  you're  very  weleome  home,  again." 

A  more  honest,  manly,  kind,  true  face  than  his  has 
seldom  met  the  oi)en  air  and  the  broad  sunlight,  or 
fronted  tearing  wind,  or  chilling  wet,  or  driving  snow; 
or  met  warm  welcome,  as  it  was  seen  by  a  wife  through 
the  half-opened  door ;  or  beamed,  friendly  and  fatherly, 
on  frolics  of  children  at  the  hearth.    Now,  it  was  clouded. 

"  Why,  Skipper  George  !  "  said  the  pastor,  "  what  is 
it,  ray  good  friend  ?  Do  tell  me !  "  Then,  pressing  the 
father  to  a  seat,  he  silently  sat  down  to  listen. 

"  Ah,  sir,"  the  father  said,  "  I've  a-sid  heavy  misfort'n 
sunce  the  last  sun  as  ever  rose.  It's  my  Lucy,  sir ;  you 
know'd  her  sir," — his  voice  breaking, — "  so  well  as  I 
a'most,  an'  she  loved  the  good  Lord  an'  E's  dear  Church  ! 
well,  sir,  she  was  sick  from  short  afrer  you  laved  the 
Iiarbor  tuU  this  evenun :  that's  'isterday  evenun,  I  should 
sav." — He  sighed  as  he  thus  reminded  himself  of  the 
time  already  gone,  by  which  the  separation  had  been  so 
much  widened. — ''  She  was  goun  through  the  worse  of  it, 
and  we  thowt,  naterally,  that  as  she  didn'  get  no  worse 
she  would  get  better,  if  it  was  His  will,  and  so  the  doctor 
said,  (that's  Dr.  Aylwin,  sir,  of  Brigus.)  So  when  I  turns 
out  in  the  marnin  'isterday, — which  I  doned  nearly  about 
wi'  the  first  sun, — aft  3r  I'd  said  my  bit  of  a  pr'yer,  I  says 


In 


liil'i  i 


116 


THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


to  myself,  as  a  body  will,  you  know,  sir,  I  says,  now  I 
think  I'll  jes  go  down  to  B'y  Harbor,  mubbe,  after  I  got 
through  lishin',  and  get  a  marsel  o'  figs,*  or  sech-like,  for 
my  poor,  dear  maid ;  liopin,  mayhap,  the  faver  m'y  take 
a  turn,  and  then  they'd  help  her  to  goody  a  bit ;  and  any- 
how I  had  a  two  and  sixpence  that  I'd  a-kep  this  many's 
the  d'y  against  I  may  want  itj  and  a  body  likes  to  do 
summat  cheery  for  a  sick  darter  when  he  can ;  so  I  goes 
and  I  looks  upon  her,  and,  to  my  seemin',  she  looked  jest 
as  ef  it  wus  an  angel  a  layin'  there,  that  had  put  on  my 
gal's  look,  and  her  face,  and  her  hair.  She  looked  so 
bright  someliow, — so  oncommon  bright,  I  was  a'most 
afeared  to  kiss  her  ;  but  I  did,  sir,  thank  God ;  I  did,  sir, 
and  it  seemed  in  a  manner,  to  bring  my  darter  back  ;  for 
she  says,  very  low  like, '  Father  ! '  she  says, '  What  lovey  ?  * 
says  I ;  '  Dear  father  ! '  says  she,  and  nothin'  more  ;  and 
I  couldn'  help  it,  but  I  cried  much  as  I'm  doin'  now,  sir ; 
but  I  do'no  why  I'm  so  long  a  tellin'  it,  on'y  I'm  afeared 
to  get  upon  the  rest  of  it.  However,  I  went  out  and 
corned  home  wi'  my  few  fish,  and  hurried  and  got  off  and 
went  over  to  Backside,  and  got  myself  put  over  to  Bread 
an'  Cheese  Cove,  and  so  travelled  afoot  the  rest  part  o' 
the  w'y,  and  got  the  trifle  o'  things,  and  came  round  by 
Castle  B'y  river-head.  I  s'pose  I  might  be  gOue  a  matter 
of  six  hours,  most  likely ;  when  I  got  to  the  top  'o  the 
hill  by  the  church  and  sid  the  house,  I  s'pose  I  might  'a 
felt  it  was  eni[)ty ;  but  I  didn't,  sir.  It  seemed,  in  a 
manner,  as  ef  strength  blowed  out  of  it,  couiehow,  to  me, 
I  growed  so  much  livelier ;  and  I  stowed  aw'y  my  little 
parcels  in  my  pockets,  thinkin',  perhaps,  she'd  feel  in  'em, 
pl'ying  like,  as  she'd  oose  to  do,  when  she  feeled  herself 
better.  So  I  walks  up  to  the  door,  and  lo  and  beJiold  it 
*  In  common  parlance  this  word  nieans  raisins. 


ai5«'i 


A   GREAT   LOSS. 


117 


■9» 


little 
.  'em. 


was  open ;  but  I  thought  nothin'  strange  and  I  went  in, 
and  right  into  the  place  where  I'd  aleft  her,  sir,  and  she 
wasn't  there.  '  Mother ! ' — says  I ;  but  my  missis  wasn't 
there  :  *  Granny  ! '  says  I,  but  she  wasn't  there  ;  then  my 
t'other  little  gal  that  was  sittin'  down  by  the  door,  tryin* 
to  tie  her  shoe,  and  cryun',  said,  '  Daddy,  she's  gone  aw'y, 
Daddy,'  she  said, '  Daddy,  she's  gone  aw'y.  Daddy ; '  and 
my  heart  went  once  jest  as  a  tish  would  go,  and  I  never 
asked  her  who  she  maned,  but  I  sid  there  was  somethun 
tarrible  strange ;  and  so  I  sat  down  on  the  binch  and  gave 
one  great  sigh  like,  that  seemed  to  ase  me  ;  and  then  I 
got  up  and  tookt  my  poor  little  papers  and  put  them  on 
the  bed,  and  follyed  right  out  to  see  ef  I  could  find  what 
had  becomed  of  her.  So  we  sarched  all  evenun,  and  we've 
asarched  all  night;  and  so — I'm  sittun  here,  as  I  be 
now,  sir, — 'Tw'as  a  bad  night  for  she  ! — Ah,  well !  God 
knows." 

As  he  said  this  the  bereaved  man  sat  and  wept,  openly 
and  steadily,  in  silence.  Not  a  motion  was  made  nor 
a  word  said  until  he  wiped  his  eyes  with  the  back  of  his 
hand,  and  turned  his  honest,  manly  face  again,  and  said  : — 

"  I  found  my  mistress  ;  an'  I  found  Granny  Palasher  ; 
an'  I  sid  Miss  Dare  that  was  just  comun  up  ;  I  could  find 
every  body  ;  but  we  never  found  my  dear  young  maid ! 
It  isn'  like  we  woul',  sir.  God's  will  be  done,  however. 
'E'll  do  what  'E  sis  best." 

The  simple  story  ended,  he  turned  quietly  away  from 
his  hearer,  as  if  there  were  nothing  more  for  him  to  say, 
and  he  would  listen  now. 

The  pastor  rose  up  and  took  his  hand  in  both  his, 
and  said  "  Amen  ! "  There  was  a  general  motion  among 
the  company,  and  many  repeatiul  the  word.  The  pus- 
tor's  voice  trembled  as  he  said — 


118 


Till':   NEW   I'UIKST 


"  God  bless  you !  Skipper  George  ;  we  must  find  lier, 
or  find "     lie  paused. 

The  fishennan  made  that  most  expressive  gesture  of 
head  and  hand  which  is  read  in  all  languages,  and  touches 
any  class  ot*  men,  meaning — 

"  Ah  !  you  needn't  say  it,  sir !  I  know." 

"Let's  see  where  we  are,"  said  the  Parson,  and  he 
turned  toward  the  company,  among  whom  was  the  con- 
stable. "  ]Mr.  Gilpin,  you  know  all  about  it  ?  "  he  asked 
of  this  worthy  man,  who  was,  also,  one  of  the  two  smiths 
of  the  place.  Charles  Gilpin—"  Mr.  Galpin,"  "  JMr.  Gul- 
pin,"  "  Skipper  Chai-lie,"  as  he  was  variously  called,  was 
an  Englishman,  middle  sized,  with  a  face  dark  by  nature, 
and  always  wearing  a  shade  of  grime  from  his  "  forge," 
and  slightly  pitted  by  the  varioloid.  His  right  eye  was 
•wanting,  having  been  d(\>^troyed  by  an  aciident  in  firing  a 
salute  on  the  king's  l)irlhday,  in  one  of  his  own  young<a' 
hours.  The  remaining!;  orb  in  that  iinnamont  seemed  as 
much  brighter  as  if  the  other  had  been  absorbed  into  it, 
and  had  joined  its  fires.  lie  was  an  intelligent,  pleasant 
looking  fellow,  with  that  quick  motion  of  the  muscles 
about  the  eye  that  marks  the  possession  of  humor. 

"  I've  done  my  best  at  it,  sir,"  answered  the  constable, 
with  modest  brevity. 

"  Who  saw  Lucy  last  ?  " 

"  I  can  tell  'ee,  sir,  ef  'cell  i>lase  to  let  me,"  said  the 
brave  old  fisherman.  "  I've  got  it  all  by  heart,  in  a 
manner.  'Twas  Granny  Palasiier  hai>p(Mied  to  be  bidin 
wi'  her,  (for  we  didn'  oose  to  have  reg'lar  watchers  d'y- 
times,  sir,  only  we  never  laved  her  long,)  an'  so  Lucy 
waked  up  and  called  for  a  drink,  granny  says;  an'  she 
didn'  want  tay,  an'  she  did'n  want  spruce,*  an'  she  wanted 

*  Spruce  beer ;  a  common  beverage. 


n: 


t.„ 


A   GIIKAT   LOSS. 


119 


a  drink  from  tlie  Ilarpool — that's  it  in  tlie  hollow  under 
the  bank,  t'other  side  o'  tlie  (rhiirch,  you  know,  sir;  an'  so 
the  granny  went  aw'y  to  fetch  it,  never  thinkun  o'  naw- 
thun,  of  course,  an'  nobody's  sid  a  sign  of  her  sunce,  only 
poor  little  Janie  said  she  goed  round  the  corner." 

"  How  long  wtus  the  granny  gone  ?" 

"  I  can'  be  exac'ly  accountable,  sir,  how  long  she  was 
aw'y ;  she  m'y  ha'  sto|)ped  to  pass  a  word  wi'  a  nighbor, 
sartainly,  but  'twouldn'  be  long,  it  isn'  likely." 

"  AVho  lives  nearest  on  the  Backside  ?  The  Urstons,  I 
think." 

"  Is,  sir;  Mr.  Urston  that  married  my  missis's  sister." 

"  The  father  of  tlie  young  man  that  was  going  to  be  a 
Romish  priest?"  asked  the  clergyman. 

"  'Is,  sir ;  but  'e've  knocked  off  beun'  a  good  wliile  sunce, 
and  'e's  a  good  lad,"  said  the  father,  shutting  off'  all  sus- 
picion in  that  (juarter. 

''  How  do  things  stand  between  your  family  and  thcir's, 
now  ?  "  Mr.  Wellon  asked. 

"  Mr.  Urston's  wife  was  my  missis's  sister,  'ee  know, 
sir, — that  is,  half-sister, — and  then  my  missis  is  a  good 
bit  younger,  and  was  abrought  uj)  in  England,  mostly, 
tuU  she  v/as  a  woman.  'Twas  Mr.  Urston  an'  his  son  put 
me  over  from  Backside  to  Bread-and-Cheese  Cove.  I 
maned  to  ax  Tummas  Turtas, — lives  a  bit  beyond  they, — 
\\  hen  they  were  goun  down  to  waterside,  and  off'crs  m(3  a 
l)assage,  an'  I  could  n'  deny  'em.  Ah  !  "  he  said,  coming 
back  to  his  great  grief,  "  she's  alossed  now,  that  I  would  n' 
loss  for  all  the  fish  in  the  sea,  and  swiles  on  the  ice,  and 
fruits  o'  the  land !  Thank  'ee,  kindly,  sir ;  I  ax  pardon 
for  bein'  so  troublesome.  'Ee'll  plase  to  excuse  me, 
nighbors."  So  saying,  Skipper  George  prepared  to  go 
forth  again. 


•I      'I 

i!    i 


I' 


11:1, 


IN! 
li  ii 


120 


THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


"It  isn'  d'y light,  yet ;  is  it ? "  he  asked,  putting  great 
restraint  upon  himself. 

"  Light's  beginnun  to  come  up  over,  Uncle  George," 
said  Prudence  Barbury. 

Here  the  memory  of  the  pleasant  times  and  pleasant 
words  that  were  gone,  or  the  thought  of  sadness  present 
or  to  come,  again  overcame  him,  as  also  his  words  and  his 
condition  were  more  than  some  of  his  sturdy  neighbors 
could  bear. 

"  She  was  too  good  for  this  world,"  said  one ;  "  an* 
that's  where  she's  gone,  most  like." 

"  No,  Nahthan,  it  won't  do  for  'ee  to  say  that,"  said  the 
father ;  and  then  explained.  "  They  manes  that  God 
have  tookt  her,  sir,  (blessed  be  'E's  name !)  as  'E  tookt 
Enoch,  in  a  manner,  because  o'  what  Jesse  sid ;  (that's 
my  nevy,  Jesse  of  Abram, — lives  under  the  brow  o'  the 
hill, — Jesse  Hill,  we  calls  un ;)  I  didn'  tell  'ee,  sir.  'E 
was  over  on  the  water  against  Backside,  wi'  another, 
jiggin'  for  squids,*  an'  'e  sid  somethin'  like  a  maid  or  a 
'oman,  all  dressed  in  white,  like  an  angel,  goun  over 
Backside-w'y ;  and,  all  of  a  suddent,  she  was  gone  right 
aw'y  like.  'E  couldn'  tell  ef  the  groun'  was  stove,  or 
parted  under  her,  or  how,  'e  said ;  but  it  seemed  to  be 
gone  right  aAv'y,  an'  they  never  sid  her  come,  no  more ; 
and  so  'e  comed  right  aw'y  home,  and  told  the  people  'e 
tlioft  'e'd  asid  a  spirit ;  but  sure,  there's  nawthin'  in  that, 
sir ;  is  there  ?  On'y,  mubbe,  it  might  be  a  kind  of  a 
visage,t  like,  that  my  poor  child  would  never  come 
back." 

"  There  may  be  a  good  deal  in  it,"  answered  the  Par- 
son. 

*  Catching  a  fisii  that  serves  for  bait, 
t  Vision. 


A  GREAT  LOSS. 


121 


» 


The  eyes  of  all  were  intently  fixed  on  him,  and  the 
father,  even,  lifted  his  from  the  tire. 

"  I  don't  think  it  was  any  spirit,"  continued  their  pastor. 
"  What  clothes  had  Lucy  on,  most  likely  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  navvthin',  sir,  hut  just  as  she  was  in  bed.  It  'ud 
make  a  strange  body  cry,  a'most,  to  see  'er  poor  frock 
hangin'  up  there,  and  'er  two  shoes  standin'  by  the  side  o* 
the  bed,  an'  she  aw'y,  an'  never  comun  back,  most 
likely.  Many's  the  time  I've  alooked  at  they,  sunce,  an* 
cried  ;  it  looks  so  heartless,  like." 

The  people  about  Skipper  George  were  no  "  strange 
bodies ; "  and  some  of  them  could  not  help  doing  as  he  had 
done,  and  as  he  did. 

"  Now,  sir,"  said  he,  rising  to  depart,  and  holding  his 
weather-worn  straw  hat  in  his  two  honest  hands,  "  I  think 
'ee  knows  all." 

"I  wouldn't  have  you  go  out  again,  just  yet,"  said  Mr. 
Wellon.  "I'U  take  my  turn,  now,  and  any  fresh  hands 
that  I  can  find." 

"  Here's  one,  then,  sir,"  exclaimed  the  constable,  start- 
ing to  his  feet. 

"  Haven't  you  been  out  all  night  ? "  asked  the  Min- 
ister. 

"  Yes,  sir,  but  not  all  day  yet ;  we've  got  the  day  be- 
fore us.     I  can  sleep  when  we've  got  done." 

"  Then  I'll  be  back,  God  willing,  in  little  more  than 
half  an  hour ;  and,  if  you  please,  we'll  go  as  far  as  we've 
any  thing  to  guide  us.  I  wish  to  go  over  the  ground,  at 
least,  if  nothing  comes  of  it." 

"I'm  sure  'ee  woul',  sir,"  said  the  father,  in  a  very 
kindly  way.  "  It's  no  use ;  I  can't  lay  out  plans  now. 
I've  got  my  handes,  and  something  to  make  'em  work ;  *' 
(one  might  almost  see  a  great,  grieving  heart  heave,  as 


122 


THE  NEW   PRIEST. 


lie  said  this.)  "  I'll  bide  'E's  will ;  an'  cf  I  never  sis  her 
walking  on  this  land,  I  may  in  a  better,  ef  it's  'E's  will." 

As  he  spoke  of  not  again  seeing  her,  in  the  body,  he 
brought  up,  with  the  palm  outward,  his  honest,  hard  hand 
whose  fingers  were  bent  with  long  years'  toil,  and  thrust 
away  some  too  attractive  vision,  and,  as  he  said  the  last 
words,  brought  it  down  again  to  its  former  occupation  of 
holding  the  rim  of  his  hat. 

He  stood  still  with  his  grief;  and,  as  Mr.  Wellon 
pressed  his  honest,  hard  hand,  he  lifted  to  his  pastor  one 
of  those  childlike  looks  that  only  come  out  on  the  face  of 
the  true  man,  that  has  grown,  as  oaks  grow,  ring  around 
ring,  adding  each  after-age  to  the  childhood  that  has 
never  been  lost,  but  has  been  kept  innermost.  This  fish- 
erman seemed  like  one  of  those  that  plied  their  trade, 
and  were  the  Lord's  disciples,  at  the  Sea  of  Galilee, 
eighteen  hundred  years  ago.  The  very  flesh  and  blood 
inclosing  such  a  nature  keep  a  long  youth  through  life. 
Witness  the  genius,  (who  is  only  the  more  thorough  man,) 
poet,  painter,  sculptor,  finder-out,  or  whatever;  how  fresh 
and  fair  such  an  one  looks  out  from  under  his  old  age. 
Let  him  be  Christian,  too,  and  he  shall  look  as  if — shed- 
ding this  outward — the  inward  being  would  walk  forth  a 
glorified  one. 

"  Sit  here,  among  your  neighbors.  Skipper  George," 
the  pastor  said  ;  "  I  mean  to  be  back  shortly. — Another 
great  grief  and  mystery  in  our  little  harbor !  "  he  added, 
as  he  turned  away. 

With  these  words,  he  left  his  sorrowing  parishioner's 
bouse,  and  went  forth. 


i  ' ! 


A  NEW  MAN. 


123 


CHAPTER  XIV. 


A   NEW   MAN. 


S  Mr.  Wellon  left  the  room,  the  attention  of  the 
company  was  drawn  to  a  new  voict,  that  seemed 
ahnost  to  have  been  started  mechanically  by  the 
general  rising,  so  suddenly,  and  witliout  warning,  it  began, 

"  Wliy,  she's  cleared  out  'n  one  'f  her  hot  spells,  an* 
when  she'd  got  light-headed ;  's  no  kind  o'  doubt  o'  that 
'n  my  mind,"  said  the  strange  voice. 

The  speaker  was  an  under-sized  man,  of  thirty-eight 
or  forty  years,  w4th  well-looking  features,  and  bright,  in- 
telligent eyes.  His  scanty  hair  went  curling  downwards 
from  a  bald  spot  on  the  top  of  his  head,  for  which,  also,  a 
part  of  the  neigliboring  locks  were  compelled  to  furnish  a 
thin  covering.  The  baldness  had  been  worn  rather  by 
the  weight  of  the  months'  feet  that  had  gone  over  it,  than 
by  their  number,  or  had  been  dried  by  inward  heat  of 
busy  thought ;  his  dress  was  such  as  would  become  a 
iiigher  sort  of  mechanic,  or  a  trader  on  a  modest  scale. 

The  sentence  seemed  to  be  delivered  forthright  into  the 
middle  of  a  world  all  full  of  opinions,  and  questions,  and 
determinations,  to  find  itself  a  place.  He  looked  before 
him,  but  with  eyes  that  seemed  to  look  at  the  same  time 
to  either  side,  and  his  tone  had  a  character  of  continu- 
ance, as  if — having  begun — it  rested  with  circumstances 
when  his  ending  would  be. 


li*       r 


y" 


I  t 


i;i 


il.l 


I     i:  : 


1 1 

ill 


ill! 


124 


THE  NEW   PRIKST. 


The  company  having  composed  itself,  after  the  IMinia- 
ter's  departure,  the  new  speaker  was  seated,  tiUing  back 
in  his  chair,  with  liis  right  ancle  resting  on  his  left  knee, 
and  his  hat  in  his  lap. 

"  Wall  then,"  he  continued,  "  question  is,  which  way  d'd 
she  go  ?  *F  course  every  body's  got  to  judge  f 'r  'imself 
'n  that  point,  but  I  guess  w'  might  come  p'ty  nigh  it,  'f  w* 
were  jest  t'  talk  it  over  a  little." 

While  saying  this  the  speaker  took  an  opportunity  to 
glance  at  each  of  the  remaining  speakers  of  the  former 
dialogue,  and  at  the  rest  of  the  company  generally,  and 
meeting  with  no  let  or  hindrance,  seemed  to  think  that  he 
had  found  a  place  for  his  opinion,  and  went  on  more  con- 
fidently than  before.  He  did  not  look  at  Skipper  George, 
at  whom  he  chiefly  talked,  but  looked  to  the  left  hand  of 
him. 

The  father  regarded  him  with  grave  earnestness.  The 
constable,  after  flasliing  his  eye  at  Skipper  George, 
watched,  curiously,  the  new  interlocutor ;  and  the  other 
neighbors  listened  with  different  degrees  of  eagerness. 

"'S  I  understand  f'm  what's  ben  said  t'-night,  'n  'f'm 
what  I've  heard  before  I  come — ('m  pooty  much  t'  home, 
'n  Peterport,  ben  here  twelve  hours  o'  daylight,  an'  'taint 
a  large  place) — 't's  pooty  gen'lly  und'stood,  I  guess,  't 
this  young  lady,  'r  gal — whatever  ye  may  call  her — 'Ster 
Barbury's  daughter,  here,"  (turning  to  the  fisherman,  who 
said,  "  Is,  sir,  thank'ee,  my  darter,  an'  more  than  darter 
for  the  like  of  I ; ")  's  be'  sick  'f  a  sort  'f  a — typhoid 
they  call  'em  'th  us, — same  't  they've  had  down  'n  Mar- 
chants'  Cove,  there,  's  ye  call  it.  Wall !  I  never  saw  s' 
many  folks  out  o'  their  head  'th  that  fever  's  they  is  here, 
not  reg'lar  hoppin  mad,  but  out  o'  kilter  'n  the  upper 
regions,  's  th'  sayin'  is.     Wall,  now,  'n  the  hot  fit  come 


A  NEW  MAN. 


125 


on,  't  'd  make  her  stronger,  an  when  her  mind  'a  out  o* 
tlie  way,  ye  see,  'twould,  likely,  make  her  want  t'  try  an* 
do  soniethin'." 

The  interest  with  which  his  hearers  had  been  listening 
was  evidently  not  flagging. 

"  It's  Mister  Banks,  the  American  marchant,"  said  Pa- 
tience Frank,  (for  she  was  there,)  to  a  neighbor-woman. 

"  Wall,  then,  question  comes :  what  would  she  do  ? 
Why,  'cordin'  to.  She  wanted  a  drink  o'  water,  f '  one  thing  ; 
wall,  s'pose  she  'as  very  dry,  sh'  might  go  off  to  git  some, 
hkely.  'F  all  she  wanted  was  water  t'  cool  her,  sh'  might 
take  't  into  her  head  to  git  into  the  water  ;  but,  then,  bein' 
crazy  don't  make  a  fool  'f  a  gal,  'f  sh'  wa'n't  one  b'fore  ; 
and  they  wa'n't  any  thin'  lik'  that  'bout  this  young  lady. 
Then,  don't  ye  see,  the'  was  lots  o'  folks,  by  all  'counts,  on 
the  flakes,  (ye  call  'em,)  an'  round,  an'  one  of  'em  *s  her 
mother ;  so  she  didn't  go  down  that  way,  whether  or  no. 
Wall,  then,  again,  'tain't  likely  she  was  all  thust ;  she  had 
some  notions  b'sides  that :  (we  ain't  all  flesh  and  blood,  I 
guess.)     Le's  see." 

^  It  was  strange  to  see  the  unflagging  attention  of  the  au- 
dience to  this  lengthened  argument,  given,  as  it  was,  Avith 
no  attractions  of  oratory,  or  enforcement  of  gesture,  except 
an  invariable  sticking  of  the  thumb  and  forefinger  of  the 
right  hand  into  the  palm  of  the  left,  (much  as  we  have 
known  a  good  old  Greek  professor  to  practise  with  his 
pencil  and  a  hole  in  his  inkstand.)  There  was  a  persist- 
ency and  push  in  the  arguer's  voice,  and  an  adhesiveness 
in  his  expressions,  that  carried  his  reasonings  in,  and 
made  them  stick.  So  there  was  a  general  assenting  in 
words,  besides  silent  affirmations  and  negations  of  the 
head,  as  he  affirmed  and  denied. 

«  That's  a  clear  case ! "    "  Surely !  "    "  All  so,  sir  I "  and 


Ii    ' 


W     I 


p 


"111 


II. 


4\ 


i  ilf 


12G 


THE   NKW   PRIKST. 


the  like,  refreshed  the  speaker  much  us  the  parenthetic 
"  hear  "  and  cheers  of  the  House  of  Commons,  or  as  the 
plaudits  of  the  Athenians  gratiliod  Demosthenes. 

The  constable,  as  if  his  cue  were  only  to  keep  official 
eye  and  ear  upon  the  speaker,  let  him  go  on,  without 
meddling  with  him,  and  kept  silence.  The  father  heard 
Mr.  Bangs  with  steady  attention. 

*'  Wall !  "  continued  the  reasoner,  "  then  comes  ques- 
tion again  ;  which  Avay  ?  Sis'  says  right,  no  doubt.  Sh* 
went  right  round  the  corner  o'  the  house,  an'  down  to — 
back  pare  o'  the  place,  here — " 

"  'Is ;  Backside,  sir,  we  calls  it,"  says  a  neighbor. 

"  Wall,  't's  a  good  name,  no  doubt.  The's  two  roads 
goin'  'long,  up  an'  down,  I  believe — " 

"  'Is,  sir,"  said  one  of  the  neighbors ;  "  there's  the 
summer  w'y  and  the  winter  w'y,  by  Cub's  Cove,  and 
the  Cosh,  and  so  into  the  woods." 

"Fact,  I'  ben  on  both  of  'em  myself,"  continued  the 
speaker.  "  Then  the's  a  path  goin  from  Skipper  George's 
(s'pose  I  ought  to  call  him) — " 

"  It's  a  compliment  they  pays  un,"  said  the  constable. 

"  Don't  heed  it,  sir,"  said  the  stout  fisherman  ;  "  George 
is  plenty  good  enough  for  I,  alw'ys  ;  and,  most  of  all, 
now." 

If  the  kindness  that  lies  in  such  compliments  embellishes 
common  times,  there  is  no  danger  of  times  of  sorrow 
wanting  them.  The  reasoner  resumed,  keeping  the  title 
now  that  he  had  got  it. 

"  The's  a  path  from  Skipper  George's  right  acrost  these 
two  roads,  (that  is,  ye  call  'em  roads  'n  this  country)  wall, 
I  guess  she  kep'  the  path  t'U  she  got  to  these  two  roads, 
('f  ye  call  'em  so,)  f 'r  't's  plaguey  hard  makin  tracks  out- 
side of  a  road,  here — (fact,  'tain't  al'a's  the  easiest  trav- 


A  NKVV  MAN. 


127 


ellin'  in  'om,  ])'t  tliat's  'notlier  question,) — she  kcp'  the 
path  t'i  slio  got  t'  those  two  rojids,  an*  then  question  is, 
which  way?  Siic'd  take  some  way  eertin.  I  guess  ye'll 
tiiink  we  might  's  well  try  t'  hejir  'em  'leetioneerin'  'r 
taikin'  polities  'n  the  modn,  's  try  t'  guess  what  was  in  her 
mind  ;  but  look  a'  here,  now  ;  s'posln'  she'd  heard  o'  the 
old  gentleman's  goin  down  t'  Uay  Harbor  ;  she  might 
want  to  go  after  him ;  but  then,  here's  this  story  o'  Jesse 
Hill — 'f  that's  his  name,  lie  saw  her,  aecordin'  to  his 
story,  (f'r,  I  take  it,  th'r'  ain't  'ny  reas'nablc  doubt  b*t 
Hwas  the  gal  he  saw,)  where  she  must  ha'  ben  on  t'other 
path.  Now  I  understand  gals  sometimes  take  a  notion  t* 
care  f'r  other  folks  b'sides  their  fathers  ;  't  seems  to  ha' 
ben  the  way  with  'cm,  by  all  accounts — f 'm  Grandm'ther 
Eve,  's  fur  's  1  know.  I  don't  say  how  'twas  in  this  case, 
but  she  must  ha'  ben  a  takin'  piece  herself,  b'  all  accounts 
— an'  then,  if  the'  was  a  k'nd  'fa  runnin'  idea  'f  someb'dy 
'n  her  mind,  why,  somehow  'r  other,  she'd  be  very  apt  to 
folia  that  idea.  She  didn't  show  any  sensitive  feelins, 
did  she?" 

"  I  don'  rightly  understand  'ee,  sir,"  said  the  father,  "  I 
ben't  a  larn'd  man  'ee  know." 

"  Sh'  didn't  feel  *ny  tender  'motions,  I  s'pose  ?  That 
is,  she  hadn't  taken  a  notion  to  one  more'n  another?— 
young  man  I  mean,  livin'  somew'e's  round  ?  " 

The  fiither  answered  gravely,  but  with  the  same  hearty 
readiness  as  before — 

"  I  know  a  father  can't,  mubbe,  feel  proper  sure,  al- 
w'ys — to  say  sure — of  his  darter's  heart ;  but  so  fur  as  a 
man  can  be  sartain,  I'm  sarten  sure  my  Lucy  would 
never  have  agrowed  to  e'er  a  body,  knowunly,  atliout  my 
knowun  it,  as  well.  There  was  a  neighbor's  son,  surely 
— that's  young  Mr.  Urston  we  spoke  about — mubbe  there 


1 1 


i* 


■(I! 


til' 


m 


;;i    .| 


128 


TIIK   NKW   riMKST. 


might  have  somcthim*  come  out  o'  tluit ;  hut  thcy'm  Ko- 
mans,  and  my  poor,  dear  maid  lovod  licr  Sjivior  too  much 
to  hear  to  e'er  a  Roman.  She'll  tolly  her  own  church, 
thank  God,  wiillo  she's*  livin',  or  ef  slui's  dead,  as  is  most 
like,  she'll  never  change  now,  to  ought  else,  only  hetter 


an'  more." 


"No  more  she  woul',  Skipi)er  George;  that's  a  clear 
case,"  said  Zebedee  Alarchant. 

"  Wall,  on'y  jest  started  proposition ;  'hope  's  no  harm 
done.  Ye  think  the'  wa'n't  forbid  to  keep  company ;  do 
ye  ?  Wall ;  on'y  'f  'twas  my  gall,  (but  the'  ain't  'ny  TH/Zm 
Bangs,  yet,  I  guess, — but  it'  'twas, — )  should  be  willin'  t' 
bet  a  tburp'ns  hap'ny — ('t's  a  coin  ye  hain't  got  't's  equal 
to, — wall,  't's  a  small  sum  o'  money,  b't  it'  bcttin's  t'  settle 
it,  should  be  willin'  to  bet) — they  know  soin'th'n  'bout  her 
'n  that  family.  Kuther  think  the  folks  'n  that  house, — 
(called  in  there,  a  minit,  an'  as'd  f'r  a  drink  o'  water, 
seein'  the'  Avas  a  light  burnin ;  didn't  see  anythin  out  o' 
tir  way,  j)'tic'lar,  but,) — nitlier  guess,  'f  tliey  were  put  to't, 
they've  s<;en  or  heard  of  her,  one  o'  th'  two.  Ye  see, 
there's  that  punt,  's  ye  call  it,  't  the  cap'n  the  brig,  there, 
saw  'th  th'  nuns,  or  what  not,  in't ;  (fact,  I  saw  'em  m'self, 
— that  is,  I  saw  one  great  black  one,  'n'  a  couple  'f  other 
women," — here  there  was  great  sensation  among  the 
hearers, — "  w'n  I's  peekin'  round  the  house,  to  see  what's 
goin  on ;)  should  like,  pleggily,  to  know  what  the  nuns 
were  up  to,  'th  their  punt,  an'  what  'twas  they  kerried 

down Wall,  'f  those  folks  do  knoWj  it's  plcggy  strange 

though  !  Wh',  anybody  't  had  got  the  feelin's  'f  a  man,  'd 
go  on  his  hands  'n  knees  round  all  outdoors — wall,  he'd  go 
a  pooty  long  chalk,  any  way — fr  a  neighb'r  'n  distress." 

"Young  Mv.  Urston  's  a  good  lad,"  said  the  father; 
"  an'  the  family  ain't  a  bad  family,  ef  they  be  Romans." 


A   NKW   MAN. 


129 


5> 


"  Wall,  I've  said  'bout  all  I've  ;j;ot  t'  say,  \)*ty  much. 
Yc're  welcomo  to  it  f  what  't's  worth.  'Find  th'  ain't 
l^'oiii'  to  be  much  to  do,  'ii  th(!  way  o'  business,  t'U  they 
conie  back  I'm  Labrador, 'thout  I  take  to  Iccturiiru  spoil, 
— (got  'n  exhibition  o' dissolviii'  vi(!ws;  ust-d  to  charj^e 
one  an' six,  Yankee  money;  m't  make  it  a  shlUm',  cur- 
rency, here ;  but) — 'f  the's  anythin'  jjjoin'  on,  while  I've 
got  spare  time,  here'.*'-  one  man  ready." 

"  Thank'ee,  kindly,  sir,"  said  Skipper  George.  "I'm 
sure,  it's  very  good  of  'ee  to  take  so  much  eonsarn  vvi* 


tiitrang(;rs. 


"  Wall,  'don't  feel's  though  folks  ware  strangers,  when 
they're  in  trouble.  B't  't's  'bout  time  f '  me  to  be  trav'llin', 
I  guess,"  concluded  Mr.  l^angs,  who  had  taken  up  his 
hat,  and  maje  a  start  out  of  the  way  of  thanks.  "  Do'no 
'xac'Iy  customs  here,  ye  know ; — I'k  a  lisli  out  o'  water, 
ye  may  say.  Make  my  compliments  t'  th'  I'arson,  's  ye 
call  him,  'f  't's  ruleable,  'n'  tell  him  'promised  t'  put  up 
'th  s'm  folks  'long  down  the  harbor.  Wish  ye  good-night, 
all ! " 

So  saying, — the  gathering  of  neighbors  in  the  room 
opening  and  letting  him  through, — he  went  out  into  the 
open  air  and  the  morning  twilight,  and  walked  away  with 
short,  quick  steps,  swinging  one  arm. 

"  Well ! "  said  the  constable,  releasing  his  long  attention 
in  a  deep  breath,  "  tiiere's  a  fellow  that'll  git  under  way 
without  waitun  for  tide  to  float  un  off,  any  how ; "  and, 
with  this  remark,  the  constable,  also,  went  hastily  forth. 


9 


m 


t 


J    i: 


III 


li'i 


Ml 


'i^'i 


130 


THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


CHAPTER    XV. 

TRACES    OF    THE    LOST. 

jITHIN  the  half  hour  that  he  had  mentioned, 
the  Parson  had  got  back  from  his  own  house, 
and  the  constable  joined  him  near  Skipper 
George's  door.  It  was  a  dull,  dreary-looking  hour  of 
day,  so  thick  that  Mr.  Wellon  and  his  companion  soon 
hid  themselves  "  multo  nebulae  circum  amictu."  * 

"  Jesse  Barbury  will  join  us  presently,"  said  the  former, 
as  they  crossed  the  ridge.  "  I  wish  to  follow  out  his 
story,  if  nothing  comes  of  it,  even.  We'll  keep  down  the 
path,  and  he  can't  miss  us,  though  the  light  is  long  com- 
ing, this  cloudy  morning.  We  can  wait  a  little  for  him  at 
the  rock,  there.  I  should  like  to  hear  something  more 
about  her  sickness." 

The  earth  and  its  growth  were  wet,  and  hung  with 
drops,  but  it  was  not  raining  now.  The  early  morning 
air  was  chilly  and  thick,  and  nothing  at  a  little  distance 
could  be  seen.  While  Gilpin  was  telling  the  story  of  the 
maiden's  fever,  of  which  the  reader  knows  more  than  the 
constable  told,  the  light  of  day  gradually  spread  itself;  at 
first  exposing  the  mist,  and  afterwards  driving  it  away. 

*  Mn.  I.  412.    With  ii  thick  cloak  of  cloud  about  them. 


TRACES  OF  THE  LOST. 


131 


In  the  little  time  that  they  were  standing,  a  short,  sharp 
fall  of  rain  came  down  upon  them,  and  then  the  clouds 
began  to  break.  The  light  fast  opened  the  whole  land- 
scape of  the  neighborhood  in  which  the  sad  anu  mysteri- 
ous event  had  taken  place. 

"  It's  clearing  off  finely,"  said  the  Parson,  with  a  hope- 
ful tone  of  augury. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  the  constable,  with  little  sound  of  the 
same  feeling  in  his  answer. 

"  That's  a  queer  chap,  that  Yankee  that  was  in  the 
kitchen,  sir,"  he  resumed,  after  a  pause ;  "  and  he's  got 
some  pretty  'cute  notions,  too.  He  says  she's  gone  off  to 
the  Urstons'  house  in  a  fit  o'  craziness.  You  know  it's 
said,  sir,  there  was  something  between  the  young  people ; 
however  he  found  it  out." 

"  Most  likely  she  has  gone  out  in  one  of  those  fits," 
said  Mr.  Wello.i ;  "but  Jesse  Hill's  the  point  that  we're 
to  begin  at,  I  think ;  I've  sent  for  Jesse ." 

*•  And  there  he's  coming  now,  sir,  over  the  gool'-bushes 
yonder.  I  see  his  great  fur  cap,  and  his  great  red  whis- 
kers under  it,  liKe  a  forge-fire." 

"  We'll  find  out  about  this  sight  of  his  first,  if  we  can," 
said  the  Parson.  "  By  the  way,  we  forgot  to  take  the 
dog !  "  added  he,  suddenly. 

"  No,  sir,  he  came  along.  There  he  is,  sir,  nosing 
about  yonder.  We've  luid  a  dozen  of  'em  out,  and  he 
too  ; — Susan  brought  un." 

"■  We'll  give  him  another  chance  to-day,"  said  hi.~:  mas- 
ter; "but  this  rain  isn't  much  in  his  favor,  or  ours 
either." 

"Jesse  Barbury,  or  Jesse  Hill,  came  up,  conspicuous 
for  red  whiskers  and  freckles,  but  looking  honestly  sad. 
"  Sarvant,  sir ! "   he  said  to   hi.     pastor,   lifting  his  hat; 


i 


'.l 


il:? 


: 


I  '    r 


!li 


U\' 


i!|| 


mmi:^ 


Ml 


|:i!  ,;l 


!i 


1    . 


132 


THE  NEW   PRIEST. 


and  in  a  lower  and  more  familiar  voic&  to  the  constable, 
"  Plope  'ee're  hearty,  Mister  Gulpin." 

"  We're  going  down  the  Backside,  Jesse.  Will  you 
go  along  and  see  if  we  can  mal.e  out  whereabouts  that 
white  thing  was  when  you  saw  it  ? " 

"  Sartin,  sir,"  said  Jesse  Hill,  falling  into  the  rear  while 
they  took  the  path  through  the  bushes,  as  a  boat  in  tow 
might  fall  astern. 

As  they  were  far  enough  over  to  have  the  land  going 
right  down  between  them  and  the  shore,  Mr.  Wellon, 
keeping  his  eyes  toward  the  water,  inquired  of  Jesse 
whereabouts  his  punt  had  been  the  evening  before  at  the 
time  of  the  vision. 

"  Sir  !  "  said  Jesse,  emphatically,  by  way  of  exclama- 
tion, not  question,  and  evidently  glad  to  be  opened,  "  ef 
'ee  plase  to  bring  yon  var  (fir)  on  wi'  the  road  at  tother 
side,  sir,  up  over,  we  was  about  a  fourth  part  o'  the  w'y 
acrost,  sir  ;  and  Izik  Maifen,  that  was  along " 

*'  And  where  was  the  figure  when  you  first  saw  it  ? " 
asked  the  Parson,  cutting  gently  off  the  tail  of  Jesse 
Hill's  discourse. 

"  It  comed  right  out  of  a  big  bush,  seemunly,  sir, — to 
my  seemun,  sir,  and  Izil;  Maffen ." 

"Would  you  know  the  bush  if  you  could  see  it?" 

"  Mubbe  I  mought,  sir.  I  can'  be  rightlj'-  sure,  sir — 
to  say  sure,  sir." 

"  What  color  was  it,  Je  sse  ?  Was  it  yellow,  or  red  ?  " 
asked  the  constable. 

"  Wu^',  ]Mr.  Gulpin,  it  was  dark  lookun ;  I  couldn'  say 
gezacly,  but  'twas  dark-lookun  ;  and  Iz ." 

"  That's  pretty  well,  Jesse  ;  you  kept  all  the  v/its  you 
had  about  you,  if  you  did  get  frightened.  Can  you  see 
it  from  here  ?  " 


TKACES  OF  THE  LOST. 


133 


onstable, 

►Vill  you 
outs  that 

jar  while 
t  in  tow 

nd  going 
Wellon, 
of  Jesse 
re  at  the 

3xclama- 

ned,  "  ef 

a,t  tother 

the  w'y 

saw  it?" 
of  Jesse 

,  sir, — to 

?" 
re,  sir — 

»r  red  ?  " 

ildn'  say 


vits  you 
you  see 


The  fisherman  surveyed  the  whole  surroundnig  scenery 
with  an  eye  that  from  infancy,  almost,  had  learned  to  note 
landmarks  ;  and  here  were  plenty  of  bushes  to  choose 
from, — a  wilderness  of  them, — but  he  recognized  none. 
Here  and  there,  at  a  distance,  were  still  scattered  a  few 
persons  who  seemed  to  be  searching. 

"  Ef  I  was  down  at  tother  side  o'  they  bushes,"  he 
began. 

"  Surely,  Jesse,  that's  only  reasonable ;  you're  a  better 
sailor  than  I  be." 

"  Ay,  Jesse,"  said  his  pastor,  who  had  been  looking 
with  eager  but  sad  eyes  over  the  waste  ;  "  get  down 
somewhere  where  you  can  see  it  as  you  saw  it  before. 
That's  Mister  Urston's  house  over  there  ?  " 

"  Is,  sure,  sir ;  that's  'e's  house,  sir,"  answered  Jesse. 

"  There's  that  new  popish  priest,  talking  with  Skipper 
George ! "  said  Gilpin  ;  and  as  our  Parson  turned,  he 
saw  the  companion  of  his  walk  of  a  few  days  before, 
standing  uncovered,  (perhaps  out  of  respect  to  the  bare 
head  of  the  sorrowing  father,)  and  so  engaged  as  not  to 
see  Mr.  Wellon  and  his  party. 

''  Yes,  that  was  he  !  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Wellon. 

"  Yes,  sir,  and  that's  just  their  way  of  going  on,"  said 
the  constable. 

"  He  won't  lead  George  Barbury  astray,"  said  our 
pastor,  giving  a  long  look,  however,  in  that  direction. 

"'Deed,  'e  wou'n't,  then,"  said  Jesse  Hill;  and  the 
party  again  set  forward,  Mr.  Wellon  last. 

"  Thisam's  the  path  from  Uncle  George's  w'y,"  said 
Jesse,  as  they  struck  it.  Having  gone  down  some  dis- 
tance upon  it,  Jesse  said  : — 

"  Woul'  'ee  be  so  well  plased  as  bide  here  a  spurt,  sir  ? 
an'  I'll  come  back  to  'ee,  in  short." 


I 


'n 


I  inn; 


134 


THK   NliW  I'RIKST. 


Beliind  them,  just  at  a  turn  of  the  way,  was  a  large 
bush.  Jcsso,  walk<Hl  down  the  |)a(h,  noting  the  bearings 
on  caoli  sido,  and  turning  round  once,  he  .soon  came  to 
a  stand. 

"  riasc  to  fall  astarn  a  bit,  ]\Ir.  (Juipin,"  he  called  out; 
and  the  constable-smith  did  as  directed. 

Suddenly  they  were  all  startled  by  the  running  of  one 
of  the  distant  |)arties  towards  them.  The  <log  gave  a 
s'lort  bark.  "  There's  Izik,  now,  sir  ! "  said  Jesse,  loud 
enough  to  be  heard  from  where  he  stood. 

"  Have  you  found  any  signs  of  her  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Wel- 
lon,  as  the  new  party  drew  near.  Their  answer  destroyed 
all  ho[)e  from  that  source;  they  had  only  come  to  offer  to 
help  the  Parson,  "  seeing  he  seemed  to  be  sarchin',  like.'* 

"  Well,  .lesse  ! "  said  the  constable. 

"  Ava>*t,  a  bit !  "  was  Jesse's  answer.  "  So ! "  and  he 
came  back  again. 

"  Thisam's  the  bush,  sir,*'  said  Ik;.  Kf  'ee'U  plase  to 
look,  just  as  Mr.  Gulpin's  a  comun  out  trom  behind  un, 
sir,  jesso  what  I  sid  comed  out,  an'  goed  right  down  Ik  re, 
didn't 'em,  Izik?" 

The  substance,  who  had  come  to  represent  the  name 
that  had  hitherto  been  so  frequent  on  Jesse's  tongue,  was 
a  gaunt,  hard-featured  fellow,  and  why  Jesse  should  have 
been  his  leader  and  principal,  (unless  because  he  was  not 
quite  as  ugly,  or  was,  perhaps,  better  off,)  was  hard  to  say. 

The  bush  stood  in  such  a  way  at  the  turning  of  the 
path,  that  a  short  man  or  a  woman  might,  on  the  other 
side,  have  been  hidden  for  a  little  distance  ;  the  ground 
being  for  a  few  rods  hollow,  and  then  going  up  again. 

Izik  MatTen,  appealed  to,  looked  dutifully  at  Jesse 
Hill  from  under  his  woolliMi  cap,*  and  made  his  answer  : — 

♦  or  Paisley  bonnet.  ' 


TRACES  OF  THE   LOST. 


135 


"  I*s  sure  'c  (lid,  then,  Jesse." 

"  We  can  coine  buck  this  way ;  let  ns  go  down  to 
where  she  disappeared,  if  we  can  find  it,"  said  the  Pur- 
son,  setting  out. 

"  Do  'ee  think  has  tiic  Pareson  got  track  o'  she  ?  "  said 
one  of  the  new  followers,  aside, — a  silent,  quiet  man,  who 
generally  kept  himself  back. 

The  sun,  rising,  as  he  was,  had  found  a  place  between 
the  clouds  to  look  out  through  ui)on  the  earth,  and  upon 
the  sad  search  that  these  few  men  were  making,  without 
a  trace  to  guide  them,  and  where  all  had  been  already 
searched.  The  sea  shone  before  him,  and  myriads  of 
rain-dro[)s  glistened  on  all  sides  ;  the  green  was  fairer 
and  brighter  everywhere  than  usual ;  but  if  there  could 
have  been  any  possibility  of  tracing,  at  any  time,  foot- 
prints on  the  rough  and  gravelly  path  that  they  were  fol- 
lowing, this  rain  had  washed  all  sligiit  i)rints,  of  whatever 
kind,  away,  had  made  its  own  marks,  h(!ap(!d  u[)  its  little 
black  gatherings  of  mould  from  the  bushes  on  the  white 
earth,  and  tilled  all  lesser  hollows  with  water. 

"  Did  it  go  all  the  way  down  here,  Jesse  ?  "  asked  Mr. 
Wellon. 

"  'Is,  sir,"  answered  Jesse  Hill ;  "  sometimes  we  sid  it, 
an'  more  times  agin  we  didn'  see  it ;  but  it  goed  like  a 
white  sail,  in  a  manner,  sir,  passin'  by  the  green  bushes  ; 
it  didn'  walk,  seenundy,  to  my  seemun  ;  and  Izik  MafFen, 
that  was  along  wi'  I, ." 

"  Where  did  you  see  tlie  last  of  it  ?  " 

"  Down  a  bit,  sir,  by  the  house." 

Mr.  Urston's  house  stood  along  by  the  bank  or  cliff, 
and  for  some  little  distance  round  it  the  bushes  were 
cleared  off.  The  garden,  inclosed  with  its  "  pickets," 
stretched  before  it,  towards  the  land,  (or  behind  it,  if  the 


•!.: 


w 


136 


THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


sr 


liiii 


iiii' 


I  iiii 


m 


!  h 


ii'i'l 


ill: 


i'.ii' 


■lil" 


other  side  towards  the  water  were  counted  front,)  a 
dozen  rods,  perhaps;  the  house  itself  was  uninclosed, 
and,  in  our  country  style,  a  comfortable  looking  dwelling, 
and  in  good  keeping-uj).  Some  firs  and  other  growth, 
which  had  got  far  enough  up  the  precipice  to  stand  a 
little  above  its  edge,  would  have  prevented  any  person 
very  near  the  house  from  being  seen  from  the  place  in 
which  Jesse  Hill  and  his  comrade  had  been  on  the 
water. 

The  dogs  of  Newfoundland  are  not  unlike  the  dogs  of 
other  countries  in  their  dealings  with  one  another ;  and 
the  intrusion  or  near  approach  of  a  stranger  is  a  thing 
about  which  the  dog  at  home  gets  to  his  feet,  and  puts  up 
his  tail,  and  bristles  his  mane,  and  shows  his  teeth. 

As  the  Parson  and  his  '  following '  drew  towards  the 
house,  great  care  was  taken  to  prevent  a  fight  between 
his  dog  and  a  large  brindled  fellow^  that  lay  growling  on 
the  fiat  stone  before  Mr.  Urston's  door ;  and  the  fight 
was  prevented ;  the  proper  occupant  of  the  place  being 
left  undisturbed  to  his  occupation,  and  the  other  being 
marched  off,  with  the  tramp  of  many  shod  feet,  and  ex- 
hortations fi-om  several  voices  mingled  with  his  own, 
toward  the  cliff  or  steep  bank  (for  the  shore  was  in  one 
place  one,  and  in  another  place  the  other)  at  the  water- 
side. 

A  wild  and  picturesque  chasm,  called  the  "  Worrell," 
was  broken  out  of  the  rock  near  the  house,  approached 
on  the  eastern  side  by  a  slope  of  the  land  which  was  con- 
tinued in  a  ledge  down  the  face  of  the  landward  wall,  to 
some  broken  masses  of  rock  at  the  bottom.  A  bit  of 
gray  beach  lay  among  and  beside  these  rocks  ;  and  while 
the  water  came  freely  in,  and  was  sheltered  entirely  on 
three  sides,  there  was  also  a  jutting  out  of  one  of  the 


*  uMMfHip  I  tm^mm 


TRACES  OF  TIIK  LOST. 


137 


1  fight 
being 


rocky  walls  in  such  a  way  as  to  throw  a  barrier  half 
across  the  opening,  and  to  form  a  little  safe  cove  with  a 
sand  bottom,  entirely  defended  by  cliffs.  Here  Mr.  Urs- 
ton  kept  several  punts,  and  otliers  resorted  to  the  spot 
for  a  convenient  landing-place.  Small  trees  had  got  a 
footliold  here  and  there  on  the  broken  walls  of  this  hole 
in  the  shore ;  and  near  the  top,  where  soil  had  been 
washed  over,  bushes  were  growing. 

The  fishermen  looked  to  the  Parson  as  he  scanned 
carefully  all  sides,  and  the  rocks  and  beach  at  the  bot- 
tom ;  and  they  also  examined  with  their  eyes  the  neigh- 
boring ground,  and  in  a  low  voice  carried  on  their  spec- 
ulations with  each  other. 

"  How  long  did  you  stay  where  you  were  after  the 
white  thing  had  disappeared  ?  "  he  asked,  turning  round 
to  Jesse,  who,  with  Isaac  close  at  hand,  was  waiting  to  be 
called  upon  again. 

"  Well  now,  I  couldn'  rightly  say,  Pareson  Wellon, 
how  long  it  was,  sir ;  not  to  say  gezac'ly,  sir ;  but  it  were 
a  short  spurt ;  for  Izik  says  to  I,  ses  he, ." 

The  actual  Isaac  seemed  not  to  have  supplanted  the 
historical  one,  whom  Jesse  had  so  frequently  introduced ; 
but  Jesse  had  no  touch  of  any  thing  but  solemn  serious- 
ness in  his  way  of  telling  what  he  knew. 

"  Did  you  keep  on  looking  ?  " 

"  'Is  sir,  'deed  we  did,  sir ;  we  kep'  lookin'  so  str'ight 
as  a  needle  pointin',  in  a  manner,  sir ; — but  we  never  sid 
nothin'  after  that, — no  more,  sir." 

"  No  more  we  didn',  sure  enough,"  affirmed  his  faithful 
Isaac,  solemnly. 

"  I  can  tell  'ee  now,  sir,"  said  Jesse,  who  had  recol- 
lected himself;  "we'd  jest  asid  a  punt  comin'  round 
Castle-Bay  Point,  wlien  we  first  cotcli   sight  o'  thisara' 


i 


^   ''    Hi 

l\% 


li'1 


i'ii 


ll' 


!:'! 


ill' 
ill 

lilli! 


I'ili 
'ill 


138 


THE  NEW   PRIEST. 


white  thing.  Quick  as  ever  I  sid  the  punt,  I  ses  to 
Izik,  I  says " 

"And  when  you  came  away,  where  was  the  punt, 
Jesse  ?  " 

"  When  we  corned  aw'y,  sir,  they  was  about  a  half 
w'ys  up  to  we  sir,  wi'  oars  an'  wind,  doin'  their  best ;  an' 
I  sid  it  was  Nahthan " 

"  How  long  would  tliat  take  them  ?  " 

"  Could  n'  'ave  abin  less  than  five  minutes,  sir ;  that's 
a  sure  case." 

Isaac  was  appealed  to  by  a  look  of  the  speaker,  and 
affirmed  the  statement. 

"  That's  a  sure  case,  Jesse,"  said  he. 

"  And  you  watched,  all  that  time  ?  " 

"  'Is,  sir,  we  did,  sir ;  an'  a  long  time  arter  that ;  so 
long  as  ever  we  could  see  the  place,  while  we  was  rowing 
aw'y." 

"Was  it  getting  dark?" 

"  No,  Pareson,  it  wasn'  gettun  dark  ;  the  sun  had  jest 
aknocked  off.  It  mought  be  a'  twilight,  sir.  We  was 
jes  comun  home,  however,  sir,  an'  I  ses " 

A  sudden  noisy  altercation  of  the  dogs  diverted  for  the 
moment  all  attention  toward  the  house.  Mr.  Urston's 
"  Ducker  "  had  come  out  to  the  path,  and  it  had  needed 
but  a  moment  to  embroil  him  with  the  stranger. 

"  Mr.  Gilpin  !  "  exclaimed  the  Parson,  at  this  alarm. 

"  'E  isn'  'ere,  sir,"  answered  one  of  the  company ;  but  at 
the  moment  the  constable  appeared  at  the  corner  of  the 
house,  and  set  himself,  understandingly,  to  the  work  of 
keeping  the  noisy  debaters  asunder. 

Immediately  behind  appeared  a  woman  of  about  sixty 
years,  announced  among  Mr.  Wellon's  company  as '  Granny 
Calloran ' !  whom  we  have  called  young  Urston's  nurse. 


TRACES  OF  THE  LOST. 


139 


She  was  one  of  those  women  in  whom  the  process  of  dry- 
ing away  with  age  seems  to  leave  the  essence  of  will  and 
energy,  concentrated,  after  the  manner  of  a  chemical 
evaporat'.^'  '^ler  features,  too,  had  that  expression  of 
standing  out,  that  befits  such  a  cliaracter. 

Without  noticing  Gilpin,  who  had  Mr.  Wellon's  dog  by 
the  collar,  she  set  herself  directly  in  front  of  the  other, 
putting  her  apron  over  his  face.  At  the  same  time,  with 
a  brisk  blow  of  the  foot,  she  sent  what  had,  very  likely, 
been  the  object  of  contention  into  the  open  hole  of  the 
dog's  kennel,  under  the  corner  of  the  house,  near  which 
Gilpin  stood.  The  constable,  as  suddenly  snatched  it 
out. 

"  It's  a  bad  ould  book,  that's  afther  bein'  burnt,"  said 
Mrs.  Calloran,  wdio  saw  the  motion,  holding  out  her  hand 
for  the  blackened  and  shrivelled  mass,  which  had  been, 
moreover,  disfigured  by  the  teeth  of  the  dog. 

"  Jesse,  lay  hold  o'  the  dog,  a  bit,  will  'ee  ?  "  said  Gil- 
pin, as  the  men  drew  up ;  and  four  hands  were  imme- 
diately laid  upon  Eppy,  and  a  fur  cap  and  a  woollen  bonnet 
met  together  in  the  operation. 

"  It's  got  pretty  good  stuff  in  it,  for  a  bad  book,"  pro- 
ceeded the  constable,  as  he  carefully  disengaged  some  of 
the  leaves  from  their  sticking  together.  "  Here's  prayers, 
for  one  thing." 

"  Ah !  thin,  it's  me  darter's  prayer-book  she  was 
look  in'  for,  this  while  back,  an*  niver  got  a  sight  of  it, 
good  or  bad,"  said  Mrs.  Calloran  ;  "  an'  I'm  thankful  to 
ye  for  findin'  it  this  day." 

She  again  held  out  her  hand  for  it ;  but  the  finder 
seemed  in  no  hurry  to  part  with  it. 

"  You  may  thank  the  dogs  for  that,"  said  he,  continu- 
ing his  examination  ;  "  it's  an  English  Prayer-Book,  any 


w 


I  : 


1 "  I 
\ 


ii  ,• 


I 


I  I 


I  1 


fi!     I 


!      h; 


ii| 


I   |i'  ■    %:iM 


n'M 


:  !l 


j:ii* 


i  Ii 


I 

;i,     ,: 

'■■;:! 

liil^Ai;^!,. 

110 


THE  NKW   PRIEST. 


how.     The  one  it  belonged  to  isn't  very  near  to  you,  1 
don't  think." 

"  An',  sure,  isn't  all  our  pniyer-hooks  English  ?  D'yo 
think,  do  we  pray  in  Hebrew-Greek  ? "  retorted  Mrs. 
Calloran,  getting  warm  ;  "  ar  wiiat  ?  " 

She  attempted  to  recover  the  book  by  a  sudden  snatch, 
and  set  the  dog  free  by  the  same  movement.  The  one- 
eyed  constable  was  too  quick  for  her ;  but  the  dog  mut- 
tered, mischievously. 

At  this  moment,  the  sound  of  horse-hoofs  upon  the 
stony  ground  made  itself  heard,  even  among  men  whose 
attention  was  occupied  as  was  that  of  Gilpin  and  his  com- 
panions. 

"  There's  another  of  'em ! "  muttered  the  constable, 
aside. — "  That's  Father  Nicliolas,  they  calls  un. — There's 
rather  too  many  of  those  gents  for  my  likin',''  he  con- 
tinued, in  his  aside,  "  'tisn't  eight  o'clock,  yet ;  two  of  'em, 
in  two  or  three  hours,  don't  mean  any  good,  I'll  go  bail." 

The  horseman  was  coming,  at  a  good  quick  trot,  along 
the  path  near  the  edge  of  the  cliff,  from  the  direction  of 
Castle-Bay. 

Mrs.  Calloran,  as  if  aware,  by  sight  or  hearing,  of 
this  powerful  reinforcement  close  at  hand,  (informed,  per- 
haps, by  Gilpin's  remarks,)  renewed  her  strength  ;  and 
her  face  gleamed  with  satisfaction,  even  in  the  midst  of 
its  looks  of  vexation.     She  secured  the  dog,  however. 

While  this  animal  was  working  himself  up  to  a  rage, 
and  the  other,  also,  who  was  in  charge  of  the  fishermen, 
answered  growl  for  growl,  young  Mr.  Urston  appeared, 
and  changed  the  state  of  things.  With  his  voice  and  his 
foot,  he  speedily  persuaded  Ducker  to  go  inside  of  the 
house,  and  leave  the  field  to  other  arbitrators. 

"  I'll  talk  with  Mr.  Gilpin,  Granny,"  said  he- 


TRACKS  OF  Tin:    LOST. 


HI 


rage, 
[•men, 
iared, 
id  his 
kf  the 


"An'  can't  I  do  tliat,  mosclf?"  asked  she.  "Well, 
thin,  Mr.  Galpin,  (an'  jMr.  Galpin  I  believe  it  is,  indeed,) 
let's  have  no  words  upon  it  (an'  yerself  a  man  that'rf  set 
over  the  peace)  ;  but  will  ye  «i:ive  me  the  book,  quit(i  an' 
paceable,  that  ye  tuk  from  tiiis  house  ?  an'  mcself  '11 
lave  ye  to  yer  conip.any :  an'  there's  enougli  o'  thim  tiiat 
ye  woukln't  feel  lonely,  walkiu'  away  from  this,  I'm 
thinkin'." 

"  If  Mr.  Urston  will  look  here  a  minute,  (I  snp{)0se  he 
won't  be  afraid  of  one  Church-book,)  I'll  show  him,  in  a 
jiffey,"  answered  the  constable.  "  There  !  "  said  he,  as 
the  young  man  followed  his  invitation.  "  I'm  sure  if  that 
isn't  Church,  the  Archbisliop  of  Canterbury  isn't  Cluu'ch. 
'  Articles  agreed  upon  by  the  Archbisho[)s  and  Bishops  of 
both  Provinces,  and  the  whole  Clergy  : ' — and  there's 
'  Articles  of  the  Church  of  Englaiul.'  Does  that  book 
belong  here  ?  " 

"  No,  indeed,"  said  James  Urston,  "  it's  not  your  book, 
Granny,  and  it  does  not  belong  to  any  one  here." 

"  There  seems  to  be  some  little  misunderstanding 
between  you  and  your  excellent  neighbors,"  said  a  new 
voice,  very  blandly  ;  and  the  speaker,  whom  Gilpin  had 
called  Father  Nicholas,  appeared,  on  foot,  near  the  house. 
He  -fis  a  man  in  the  prime  of  life,  and  of  an  ai)pearance 
that  would  strike  even  a  rude  man,  at  first  glance.  His 
eyes  were  deep-set  and  dark,  with  a  I.igh  forehead,  firm, 
sharp  lips,  and  a  complexion  like  slightly-yellowed  ivory, 
contrasting  strongly  with  his  olack  hair.  Tliere  was  a 
settled  look  of  authority  aboi.t  him  ;  and  he  had  the 
reputation  of  being  one  whose  influence  was  not  less  that 
of  a  man  of  superior  mind,  than  one  who  bore  a  sacred 
office.  Almost  less  was  popularly  known  or  reported 
about  this  gentle  nan's  history,   than  about  that  of  the 


11;? 


Tin;   NKW   IMJIKSr 


lU'W  pni'st  wlio  li:nl  cutnt'  1«»  rdrrport  :  nllliotiLrh  FiiflMT 
Nirliol.Ms  liM*l  1h(>h  \\\o  v«'jhn  iin«l  imoio  in  llif  m'i;j,lil»t)r- 
h(H»<l.    -MMtl  iIm'  t)lln>r,  two  wt'rUs. 

Mis  Mi»|u>;n;>mM'  «lis('i.iuM'rl«'<l  niiti  drovf  iiilo  Icmponiry 
nMrt'iU  Itcliiinl  tin*  pickcl-trin'i'  one  o\'  lln'  rdcrporl  jtop 
l.ition.  (\\\o  silent  Mini  willitlriiwin;:  niMii.)  nillicr  hIi.msIumI 
1    lsM!\«\    ulit»  U(<n>   lioldiiiu;  the  (ln-j;.  ami  rvcii 
slit^lilly  startltMl  Mister  ("liMrlcs  (olpiii,  Mnilli  ami  coiisla- 

is  were  serious  ami  sjhldeiUMl,  antl  ii<»l 


n 

tiesse   am 


lis 


Me  :  hut  nu'n's  inim 

likolv  lo  vi<'l«l  to  passimr  emotions; — (Jilpiu's  Itlood  w 
waruied,  ami  that  of  his  lolh)\v<M's  was  ready  to  ha»'k 
liim  :  ami  so.  with  tin'  soctaul  hreath,  religious  antipathy 
gavo  them  a  very  d«'t«M-nilned  nianner,  and  tlu'  eye  of 
lluMf  h-adcr  took  a  new  hriiihtness.  Their  Tarson,  heloi'o 
tho  alltMvation  l>«\u;an,  had  irone  down  into  the  Wonvll, 
(tho  t'hasm  l>eton<-desorib«>d.)  and  had  not  conu^  nj). 

Th('  prit'st   havinj:  «;iven  the  dilVeriMit   parties  time  to 
oomposo  thiMUselvt's,  s\H)ko  aiiain  ; — 


rerhaj 


)s  vonr  ni'ifihhor; 


will  excuse  vou,  Mrs.  Callo 


ran. 


sau 


Jamos,  w 


ill  vou  i\o  u\o  the  favor  to  ooim'  ii» 


If 


,  on  1 


ileaso.  sir, 


we'll  understand  about  this  hook 


« 


\  Ciilpin.  "  Ho  bolouijod  Jo  a  friend  o'  inino.and  il'  Mrs. 
Calloran   wants  to  olaim  un,  sho  knows  wIum'c  to  oomi\ 
1  if  sho'll  ]>rovi'  hor  ])rop(MMy,  sho  shall  have  un.     It's 


an« 


worth  nion>  now  than  over  it  cost. 


Th 


oro   nui 


it  bo  some  niistako,  Mrs.  Calloran, 


sau 


I 


Fat  hor    Niehola? 
•    •    •« 

It   IS. 


You'd  best  drop   tho   thini;  whore 


"  Lavo  Skippor  Charlio  alono  for  talk,"  said  one  to  an- 
othor  of  tho  oonstablo's  followors,  naturally  foolinp:  not  a 
little  proud  at  his  iowo  of'  toni^uo.  Tho  constable  hini- 
solf  suddenly  took  another  suhjeet. 

"  Mrs.  Calloran,"  said  he.  "  did  you  see  Mr.  Barbur/g 
dauu:htor  >inco  vesterdav  morning?" 


:^:: 


rUACKS  ()!•    llli:   LOST. 


Ma 


i|j;liltor- 


iponiry 
A'{  pop- 

(I     t'VCU 

constji- 
:ii)*l  not 
H»(l  was 
to  biick 
ilipnlliy 

«'V«'   ol 
),  hcloni 
yVon-t>lI, 
p. 

(iinc  to 

.  Callo 

r    " 

s  book," 

il'INlrs. 

o  ooiuo, 

in.     It's 

ji,"  sjiid 

r     whoi'C 

10  to  an- 
\«ii;  not  a 
jle  him- 

(arbury'a 


*' Mi.-llirr  Harlmry's  darter!  an'  did  I  hvv  licr?  Do 
yv  think  is  it  visitin'  licr  I  was,  that  wasn't  in  il  or  ni^li  it, 
those  niiuiy  years!  How  would  I  he  simmhi  Misther  liar- 
hiM'v's  darter  ?  Tlienr's  of/irr  oiiltl  wonini  in  l*cteij)ort, 
Tin  thinkinV 

*'Ay  !  hnt  did  you  see,  lier  ?  "  repeatecl  tlie  eonslaljlci, 
holdin;j;  on  like  a  niastill'. 

"An'  siH'e,"  answered  the  woman,  "  wonMn't  vvim  an- 
swer do  ye?  An'  what  for  nnist  ye  he.  al'lher  eonnni, 
that  has  no  call  to  it,  an'  the,  father  himself  henn  iieru 
hist  evennn  ?  " 

"  Hnt  yon  \\\\)r\\\  answer  a  plain  (pieslion,  and  a  short 
one,  with  a  plain,  short  answer,  I  think,"  persisted  the 
eonstahle. 

"  Sure  is  this  ihe;  place  to  come  asKnn  for  I-incy  l»ar- 
bnry  ?  An'  isn't  her  father's  honse  the  lit  place;  to  look 
i'or  lu'r,  besides  axnn  nuiself,  when  it's  sori'ow  a  si<^ht  I 
soon  of  h<'r  in  years,  I  snppose  ?  What  wonld  I  do  wiU 
Lney  Harbin-y  ?" 

"1  ean'l  mak<'  yon  answer,  if  yon  won't  answer  of  yonr 
own  aecoi'd  ;  bnt  there's  sonic  that  can,'*  said  the  con- 
stable. 

''An'  didn't  ye  hear  nie  saynn  I  didn't  know  if  I  seen 
licr  in  years?  1  dono  did  1  or  no,"  answered  the  uncon- 
(pierable  woman. 

"  lint  that  isn't  answering  my  question  either;  1  asked 
if  you'd  seen  her  since  yesterday  morning,"  persisted 
Skippiu'  Charlie. 

Young  Urston  seemed  rather  inclined  to  have  this  ex- 
amination go  on  than  to  interrupt  it.  The  priest,  how- 
ever, mediated. 

"  IMrs.  Calloran  will  doubtless  bo  willing  to  answer  any 
reasonable  question;"  said  he.    "  I  supiwse  you  have  some 


[I  1 


I  i  I?- 


ili! 


rm 


I 
ill! 


liih 


ilil'i"'- 


144 


THE  NEW   rRIEST. 


good  reason  for  asking.  You  wish  to  know  whether  she 
saw  this  young  person,  or  old  person,  whichever  it  is, 
yesterday  ?  Whether  she  got  soT^e  message  from  her, 
perhaps  ?  " 

"  No,  sir,"  said  Gilpin  ;  "  Mr.  Barbury's  daughter's 
Liissing,  and  we  want  to  find  her,  or  find  out  what's 
b'3come  of  her." 

"  Is  it  left  her  father's  house  ?  Sure  that's  not  a  very 
good  story  of  a  young  woman,"  said  Mrs.  Calloran,  mor- 
alizing. 

"  Granny  !  "  said  young  Urston,  sternly,  "you'll  please 
noc  to  speak  disrespectfully." 

"  If  it's  lost  she  is,  thin  may  God  find  her  !  "  said  she, 
more  sof»'ly. 

*'  Of  course  it  will  be  cleared  up,"  said  the  priest ; 
"  there's  some  explanation  of  it ;  and  I  only  hope  it  will 
come  out  happily  for  all.  You  can  say  whether  you 
kr'O'.v  where  she  is,  or  any  thing  about  her,  Mrs.  Calloran, 
and  you  needn't  keep  your  neighbors  waiting." 

"  Sure  thin,  yer  riverence.  Father  Nicholas,"  said  Mrs. 
Calloran,  "  it's  not  meself  asked  thim  to  wait ;  but  if  it's 
v.'here's  Lucy  Barbury,  indade  I  dono,  more  than  I  know 
where  the  injens  is." 

•*  Now,  Mr.  Constable,  I  shall  be  glad  if  you're  satisfied, 
as  I'm  pressed  for  time ;  but  I  won't  hurry  you." 

"  I  haven't  got  any  thing  more  to  ask  just  now,  sir," 
said  the  constable. 

"  Then  I'll  wish  you  good  morning,"  said  the  priest, 
and  went  into  the  house,  followed  by  Mrs.  Calloran. 

Before  going  in  after  them  I\Ir.  Urston  said, — 

"  She  nursed  me  as  early  as  I  can  remember,  almost : 
but  if  it  were  necessary  to  di<x  down  irv  father's  house  to 
find  a  trace,  I  say,  go  on  !     Til  buihl  it  again." 


SEAKCHLXG   SilLL. 


ILj 


CHAPTER  XVI. 


SEARCHING    STILL. 


S  the  constable  and  his  company  drew  near  the 
"Worrell,"  whitlier  Ei)ictetus,  the  Parson's  dog, 
had  gone  immediately  on  finding  himself  at 
large,  Mr.  Wellon  and  the  man  whom  he  had  taken  down 
with  him  were  coming  up. 

"Here's  something  that  may  have  been  her's,"  said 
the  former,  turning  to  his  companion,  who  held  up  a 
])lain  white  cap,  which  all  crowded  about  and  looked 
upon,  in  sacred  silence. 

It  was  marked  with  red  thread,  already  faded,  "  L.  B." 

Jesse  had  uncovered  his  honest  red  locks  before  it, 
and  more  than  one  of  his  comrades  put  the  back  of  his 
hand  to  his  eyes. 

Presently  the  general  voice  said  sadly,  "  Tliat's  Lucy's, 
and  no  mistake." 

"  it  was  part  of  that  figure  that  Jesse  and  Isaac  saw, 
I  think,"  said  Mr.  Wellon,  in  the  same  tone. 

"Do  'ee  think  'twould  wear  a  real  cap,  sir ?"  asked 
Jesse,  who  doubtless  looked  upon  what  he  had  seen,  on 
the  evening  before,  as  a  preternatural  sight. 

"I  think  it  was  her  real  self,"  answered  Mr.  Wellon, 
looking  wistfully  upon  the  path,  which  seemed  to  have 
been  the  path  of  death,  or  strange  disaster,  to  the  girl 

10 


I 


.'    i 


wM 


\  if'' 

:         ii  . 

;;       \             ,   '   ■  .:■.! 

;         ■            !  , 

I'll 

f 

,1;      ■ 

I 

i!i 

I 

t 

■'! 

i 

■    « 


146 


THE  NEW   PRIEST. 


who  had  so  lately  been  one  of  the  chief  joys  and  beauties 
of  the  place. 

"  Where  did  you  find  it,  sir  ? "  inquired  the  con- 
stable. 

"At  the  bottom  of  the  Worrell,  on  the  sand  under 
one  of  the  punts  that  Zebedee  turned  over.  It  may  have 
floated  in  on  the  tide. — I  think  you  told  me  that  boats 
were  out  along  the  shore  here  and  round  the  point?  " 

"Ay,  sir,  Cap'n  Nolesworth  and  George  Kames,  you 
know,  his  mate,  were  round  Castle-Bay  harbor,  and  some 
are  down  now,  by  land,  to  Bay-IIarbor,  and  to  Brigus  ; 
Jonathan  Frank  one  way,  and  Skipj)er  Henry  Ressle 
t'other  way.  Young  Urston,  here,  was  out  all  night  wi' 
a  lantern,  sculling  into  every  place  along  shore ;  but  there 
wasn't  a  scrcd  nor  a  scrap  to  be  found  ;  and  Solomon 
Kelley  and  Nahth  Marcliant  were  out  till  morning ;  but  I 
think  now  we'll  get  some  track  of  her,  please  God,  dead 
or  alive." 

"  Certainly,"  said  Mr.  Wellon,  "  if  she's  alive,  as  I 
hope,  W-;  must  hear  from  her;  or  if  she's  lost  in  the 
water,  as  she  may  be,  we  may  hope  to  find  her  body. 
(God  help  us  !)  We  must  get  word  to  e\  ery  place  that 
she  could  go  to." 

The  lifeless  relic  that  they  had  recovered,  heavy  and 
dripping  with  the  ocean  water,  while  it  brought  them 
near  to  her  in  one  respect,  yet  gave  deep  meaning  to  the 
suggestion  that  she  might  have  perished  in  the  sea  ;  and 
in  this  way  it  seemed  lo  impress  them  all. 

"  If  I  can  get  a  crew,  by  and  by,  I'll  go  round  the 
shore,  and  give  one  look  by  daylight." 

"  Ef  'ee'll  plase  to  take  me  an'  Izik,"  said  Jesse  Hill; 
"  we'll  be  proud  to  go  along  wi'  'ee,  sir." 

"  '  Deed  we  woul',"  said  Isaac  Maifon. 


iiii'jiii- 


W    - 


SEARCHING  STILL 


147 


eauties 
e  con- 
under 
,y  have 
it  boats 
?" 

es,  you 
(1  some 
Brigus  ; 
ReSvsle 
iglit  wi' 
lit  there 
jolomon 
^ ;  but  I 
)d,  dead 


e,  as  I 

in  the 
r  body, 
ice  that 

ivy  and 

it  them 

to  tlie 

a  ;  and 

jnd  the 

se  Hill; 


"  You've  been  out  a  good  deal  already,  though,"  said 
3Mr.  Welion. 

"  AVell,  we  can  afford  a  little  time,  Pareson  Wellon," 
Baid  Jesse.  "  I  don'  know  who's  got  a  right,  ef  I  haven*,'' 
and  Isaac  assented  :  "All  so,  Jesse." 

"An'  I'll  make  another,  if  *ee  plase,  sir,"  said  Zebedeo 
Marchant. 

A  fourth  offered  immediately,  and  the  crew  was  com- 
plete. This  fourth  was  the  quiet  man  several  times  men- 
tioned. 

"  We'm  got  somethun  to  be  doned  first,  afore  that,  I 
suppose,  sir,"  said  Jesse,  turning  gravely  round  toward 
the  wet  cap  which  Zebedee  Marchant  bore,  and  which,  at 
this  referenoe,  lie  raised  in  silence. 

"  I  think  we'd  better  keep  tiiat  until  we  come  back," 
said  Mr.  Wellon,  "  and  then  we  shall  have  something,  at 
least,  if  we  get  nothing  more.  Will  you  take  charge  of 
it?" 

"  Whatever  'ee  says,  sir,"  said  Jesse  gravely ;  "  I'll 
take  'un  ef  'ee  says  so,  sir ; "  and  so  saying,  the  honest 
fisherman,  Skipper  George's  nephew,  spread  a  great  blue 
handkerchief  upon  a  rock,  and  taking  the  cap  from  Zebe- 
dee, placed  it  in  the  handkerchief,  and  carefully  turning 
over  the  corners,  said  : — 

"  Thank  'ee  Zippity  ;  'e'U  be  safe  wi'  me  ;  so  'e  was  wi' 
you,  too."     He  then  carefully  held  it  with  both  hands. 

"  We'll  take  time  to  get  something  to  eat,  and  then  be 
off,  as  soon  as  we  can,"  said  Mr.  Wellon. 

The  excited  state  of  Jesse  Barbury's  feelings  may  have 
given  readiness  and  directness  to  his  words,  for  he  said 
immediately,  addressing  his  pastor  : — 

"  Pareson,  would  'ee  be  so  well-plased  now,  mubbe, 
sir,  as  come  an'  take  a  poor  morsel  o'  tay  wi'  us,  ef  I 


i:  i| 


m 


■*! 


Ipp 


iiiii, 

'ill 
iii 

III 


'Oil 


ii; 


iiili' 


.1  i 


.,1  'it 

|i!,;':i 


118 


THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


m'y  make  bold.  It's  poor  offerun'  sir,  I  knows  ;  but  my 
missus  'ull  be  clccir  proud." 

Isaiic  Maifen  enforced  the  invitation  in  his  fashion ; 
saying,  in  a  moderated  voice,  "  'Deed  she  woul',  that's  a 
clear  case." 

Mr.  Wellon  accepted,  at  once,  the  ready  hospitality ; 
and  Jesse,  saying  "  Come  then,  Izik,"  led  the  way  over  to 
his  house,  with  a  very  steady,  careful  step,  and  without 
speaking.  Skipper  Charlie  was  not  among  the  company 
at  the  moment;  the  otlier  fishermen,  besides  Jesse  and 
his  mate,  took  care  of  themselves. 

The  cap  was  deposited  safely  upon  the  Family  Bible, 
to  await  their  coming  back  from  the  new  expedition  ;  and 
then  Jesse's  wife,  a  pretty  woman,  once  Prudence  Frank, 
from  Frank's  Cove,  (glad  enough  to  exercise  hospitality 
for  the  Pareson,)  urged  him,  modestly,  to  "  plase  to  make 
use  o'  the  milk,"  (which  is  quite  a  luxury  among  planters 
of  the  out  harbors,)  and  of  the  '  scrod,'  *  and  all  her  sim- 
ple dainties. 

In  a  few  minutes  they  had  finished  their  hurried  meal, 
and  were  shortly  at  the  water-side.  Zebedee  and  the  other 
were  already  there. 

They  skirted  the  shore  along  by  Frank's  Cove,  and 
Mad  Cove,  and  round  Mad  Head  and  Castle-Bay  Point. 
Nothing  had  been  seen  or  heard  that  would  throw  light 
upon  the  mystery,  and  the  Parson  set  out  to  go  back  on 
foot  along  the  beach  and  the  little  path  by  the  water's 
edge  on  the  Peterport  side,  while  the  boat's  crew  made 
the  best  of  their  way  by  water. 

The  beach  was  strewed  with  empty  shells,  and  weeds, 
and  rubbish,  and  whited  with  a  line  of  foam,  and,  as  it 
chanced,  among  the  other  worthless  things  there  lay  a 

*  A  fresh  young  flsh  broiled. 


SF ARCHING   STILL. 


149 


meal, 
other 


woman's  shoe  which  Mr.  Wellon  ran  to,  and  snatched 
eagerly,  but  saw  at  a  glance,  was  nothing  to  his  purpose. 
He  threw  it  from  him  into  the  water,  and  his  dog,  exult- 
ing, leaped  in  and  secured  it.  His  search  was  done,  and 
he  went  slowly  home. 

When  at  length  after  waiting  hours,  that  information, 
if  any  were  to  come,  might  come,  he  sought  Jesse,  who 
was  the  depositary  of  the  little  thing  recovered  from  the 
sea ;  the  day — the  last  of  the  week, — was  drawing  towards 
evening,  and  twenty-four  hours  had  passed  since  Lucy's 
strange  and  sad  disappearance. 

"  I  said  I  wouldn'  start  un  tell  'ee  comed,  sir,"  said  Jesse. 

"  'Ee  did  so,  Jesse,"  said  Isaac,  who  was  still  with  him, 
and  without  delay  the  little  procession  set  forth. 

The  fisherman  bore  the  relic  reverently  in  his  two 
hands,  and  carefully  and  quickly,  ao  if  it  were  an  unsub- 
stantial thing  of  frost,  that  might  be  wasted  by  the  way. 
Near  the  door  of  the  house  of  mourning,  Jesse  and  Isaac 
drew  aside  and  would  not  go  in,  and  Jesse  gave  the  slight 
memorial  into  the  Parson's  hand,  and  he,  uncovering 
himself,  went  in  alone. 

Skipper  George,  who  sate  silently  in  his  chimney-side, 
with  his  wife  and  little  Janie,  rose  up  and  took  off  his 
hat  on  seeing  his  pastor ;  the  wife  courteseyed  and  wept. 

The  visitor  put  the  relic  into  his  hand,  without 
speaking. 

"  Have  'ee —  ?  'Is,  sir, — 'Is,  sir,"  said  the  father,  con- 
fusedly, taking  the  precious  thing,  but  turning  it  over  as 
if  he  could  not  see  it,  for  something  in  his  eyes,  "it's 
her's,  it's  her's.     Ah  !  God's  will  be  done  !  " 

Mr.  Wellon  said  nothing  of  the  constable's  hope  or 
expectation  of  tracing  her. 

The  mother  sobbed  once,  and  wept  silently,  and  Skip- 
per George  rallied  himself. 


ti 


i 


11 


!||S*I( 


ilit 


'Ml 


\m 


150 


THE  NKW   PRIEST. 


"  So  !  so  !  mother,"  said  he,  soothingly,  "  this  'II  never 
do !  There,  tliere  !  lake  it  and  put  it  by ;  mayhap  the 
dear  maid  '11  wear  it  agin,  in  short,  please  God." 

Mr.  Wellon's  eye  was  caught  by  a  lead-pencil-drawing, 
that  lay  on  the  bench. 

"  That's  her  doun,  sir,"  said  the  father,  sadly. 

"  I  did  n't  know  she  could  draw,"  answered  his  visit- 
or, taking  into  his  hand  the  paper,  blurred  somewhat, 
and  blistered. 

"  No  more  did  n'  I,  sir ;  it  was  the  last  doun  she  doned ; 
we  found  it  next  day  where  she  dropped  it,  when  she 
went  to  bed.  She  must  ha'  larned  o'  Miss  Dare,  or  the 
widow-lady." 

The  visitor  gazed  long  at  it,  and  then  said, — "  I  don't 
know  much  about  drawing ;  but  I  should  say  there  was 
great  lalent  here.  I  can't  think  how  she  should  be  able 
to  do  this  ice." 

"Athout  she  minds  about  the  ice  comun  in,  years  ago, 
when  she  was  a  little  thing,  about  so  big  as  Janie." 

"  It's  wonderful,  really  !  "  said  the  clergyman.  "  This 
vessel  going  off,  and  the  man  left  behind." 

Skipper  George  said,  in  a  low  voice, — 

"Ay,  sir,  that  vessel  never  corned  home  again !  Nor 
no  word  ever  comed  of  her ! — Will  'ee  plase  make  a 
pr'yer,  sir  ?  "  added  the  father. 

All  kneeled  down  by  the  fireside  ;  the  mother  crying  ; 
the  father  full  of  woe  as  he  could  hold,  but  move  full  of 
faith  and  will,  and  little  Janie  holding  fast  in  both  hands 
some  stones  with  which  she  had  been  at  play. 

The  pastor  prayed  for  help  to  find  the  lost  child,  and 
for  grace  to  do  and  bear  God's  will,  and  to  learn  meekly 
His  lesson. 

"  Would  n'  'ee  be  plased  to  set  fast,  sir  ?  "  asked  the 


SEARCHING   STILL. 


151 


fisherman,  as  his  Pastor  moved  to  go.  "  Well,  sir,  wc 
shall  be  })rou(l  to  see  'ee  again ;  and — it  comes  heavy  to 
bear ;  but  we'll  do  our  best,  wi'  God's  help." 

The  sturdy  man  then  followed  silently  to  the  outside 
of  the  house,  and  then,  lowering  his  voice,  said, — 

"  I've  abin  to  B'y-IIarbor,  sir,  an'  I've  abin  to  Brigus 
but  there's  nawthun,  sir ! " 

"  By  land?"  asked  Mr.  Wellon. 

"  'Is,  sir,  an'  put  my  poor  ol'  sorry  face  into  amany, 
many  houses — but  they  were  kind,  sir,  they  were  all 
kind,  sir.  They  sid  I  was  heavy  hearted,  an'  they  were 
very  pitiful  over  me." 

"  Why,  you've  been  forty  miles ! "  said  Mr.  Wellon, 
rather  to  himself.  "  It  must  be ;  besides  being  out  all 
night.     You  must  take  rest.     It's  a  duty." 

"  'Is,  sir,  an'  to-morrow  's  Sunday,  and  even  when  the 
Lord  was  dead,  they  w'ited  an'  '  rested  on  the  Sabbath- 
day,  according  to  commandment,'  afore  ever  they  'd  'balm 
'E's  blessed  body.  There  isn'  e'er  a  thing  to  be  doned 
now,  sir,  that  I  knows,  an'  I  m'y  as  well  rest  bumbye, 
an'  ef  I  can't,  mubbe,  get  sleep  right  aw'y,  I  can  pr'y 
for  un,  however." 

"And  good  days  will  come,  I  hope,  shortly." 

"Ay,  sir,  they  '11  come,"  said  Skipper  George.  "  They 
'11  come  ! " 

How  far  ahead  he  looked,  he  gave  no  sign;  but  he 
spoke  confidently. 

"An'  I  know  she'll  find  home,"  he  said,  "  ef  she  never 
comes  to  this  place  no  more,  sir.  There's  others  have 
agot  sore  hearts,  so  well  as  we.  That  good  lady  that'a 
loss'd  'er  husband  an'  'er  child,  takes  stren'th,  an'  comforts 
them  that  wants,  an'  I  musn'  give  up." 

Mr.  Wellon  pressed  his  hand  and  I'eft  him. 


ri-lt,^«ii:!l|i:'|| 


Mm 


ir)2 


Ti:..  NEW   PRIKST. 


As  he  came  out  upon  the  ridge  from  which  he  was  to 
go  down  to  the  road,  his  eye  was  caught  by  the  flash  of*  a 
white  sail,  and  he  sto{)[)ed  to  gaze. 

It  was  the  Spring-bird  gliding  fast  by  the  land  in  her 
way  out  to  Bay-Harbor,  from  which  she  was  to  clear  for 
Madeira.  A  ship's  silent  going-fbrth  is  a  solemn  thing, 
and  to  sad  minds  a  sad  one.  There  was  silence  too  on 
board  the  brig,  in  this  case,  in  tribute  to  the  j)revailing 
sorrow  of  the  little  to\^^,  and  sl^e  had  no  b^reamer  or  flag 
flying  at  peak  or  truck. 

Does  the  sea  hold  the  secret  ? 

Along  the  wharves,  along  the  little  beaches,  around  the 
circuit  of  the  little  coves,  along  the  smooth  or  broken  face 
of  rock,  the  sea,  which  '^f.nnot  rest,  is  busy.  These  little 
waves  and  ibis  long  swell,  that  now  are  here  at  work, 
have  been  ere  now  at  home  in  the  great  inland  sea  of 
Europe,  brr  athed  on  by  soft,  warm  winds  from  fruit- 
groves,  vineyards,  and  v/ide  fields  of  flowers ;  have 
sparkled  in  the  many-coloured  lights  and  felt  the  trivial 
oars  and  dallying  fingers  of  the  loiterers  on  the  long 
canals  of  Venice ;  have  quenched  the  ashes  of  the  Dutch- 
man'.- pipe,  thrown  overboard  from  his  dull,  laboring 
treckschuyt ;  have  wrought  their  patient  tasks  iii  the  dim 
caverns  or  the  Indian  Archipelago  ;  have  yielded  to  the 
little  builders  under  \WRtec  means  and  in.plements  to  rear 
their  towering  alrar, — duelling, — monument. 

These  little  waves  hove  crossed  the  ocean,  tumblinj; 
like  porpoises  at  play,  and  taking  on  a  savage  nature  in 
the  Great  Wilderness,  have  thundered  in  clo.^e  ranks  and 
countless  numbers,  against  nian's  floating  fortre?: ,  have 
stormed  the  breach  and  climbed  up  over  the  walls  in  the 
ship's  riven  >Mde;  have  followed,  howling  and  hungry  as 
mad   wolveSj  the   crovrded  rift;   have    leaped    u{)on    it, 


y»^^) 


SEARCHING    STILL. 


153 


snatching  off,  one  by  one,  the  weary,  worn-out  men  and 
women  ;  have  taken  U[)  and  borne  aloft, — as  if  on  hands 
and  sliouhkfi's — the  one  chance  human  body  that  is  brought 
into  land,  and  the  long  spar,  from  wliicii  man's  dangling 
cordage  wastes,  by  degrees,  and  yields  its  j)Iace  to  long, 
green  streamers  much  like  those  that  clung  to  this  tall, 
ta[)er  tree,  when  it  stood  in  tlie  northern  forest. 

These  waves  have  rolhul  their  breasts  about  amid  the 
wrecks  and  weeds  of  the  hot  stn^am  that  comes  up  many 
thousands  of  miles,  out  of  tiie  Gulf  of  Mexico,  as  the 
great  Mississi{)i)i  goes  down  into  it,  and  by  and  by  these 
waves  will  move,  all  numb  and  chilled,  among  the  mighty 
icebergs  and  ice-fields  that  must  be  brought  down  from 
the  poles. 

Busy,  wandering,  reckless,  heartless,  murderous  waves ! 
Have  ye  borne  down  into  the  ravening  mouths  of  the 
lower  Deep,  the  innocent  body  of  our  missing  girl,  after 
that  ye  had  tossed  it  about,  from  one  to  another,  un- 
twining the  long  hair,  one  lock  of  which  would  be  so  dear 
to  some  that  live ;  smearing  the  eyes  that  were  so  glad 
and  gladdening ; — sliming  the 

Oh !  is  that  body  in  the  sea  ? 

There  is  more  than  one  mystery  in  little  Peter- 
port. 


'  II 


'     -J 


!|     l\ 


.  I 


!i 


151 


THE   NEW   I'lilEST. 


CHAPTER   XVII. 


WHICH    WAY    SUSPICION   LEADS. 


.',    IM 


1; 


^ 


a 


hi 


lie 


HE  pastor  had  had  no  time  for  Mrs.  Barre,  or 
any  thing  but  the  search.  That  Saturday  evening 
lie  and  the  constable  sate  together  in  consultation 
in  the  former's  study,  putting  together  their  information 
and  conjectures.  Gilpin's  sus{)icions  had  been  aroused  as 
soon  as  his  eye  fell  on  the  Prayer-book  that  he  had  se- 
cured at  Mr.  Urston's  ;  and  he  had  found,  in  the  middle,  a 
book-mark  bearing  a  drawing  of  a  lamb,  with  the  legend, 
« I  am  the  Good  Shepherd,"  and  the  letters  "  L.  B."  in 
delicate  German  text.  This  mark  Miss  Dare  had  already 
recognized  as  one  which  she  herself  had  given  to  Lucy 
Barbury,  since  her  sickness.  On  the  inside  of  the  cover, 
however,  was  the  name  "  Lucy  Barbury "  still  legible, 
from  having  been  also  written  in  German  text,  though 
with  a  less  practised  hand.  The  latter  had  been  iden- 
tified by  the  mother  as  Lucy's  own  writing. 

The  present  condition  of  the  book,  taken  in  connection 
with  Mrs.  Calloran's  conduct  in  regard  to  it,  made  it 
probable  that  it  was  in  her  house  that  it  had  been  given 
to  the  fire. 

Moreover  she  would  not  answer  a  plain  question 
whether  she  had  seen  the  missing  maiden  since  Friday 
morning. 


if 


WHICH   WAY   SUSPICION   LIIADS. 


155 


iden- 


— "But  sho  contrived  to  t(!ll  difTcront  stories  about  the 
Prayer-book,"  said  the  elergynmii ;  "  why  shouldn't  she,— 
ir  she  liad  oecjision, — about  seeing  Luey  Harbury  ?  " 

"  Sometimes  they  won't  lie  to  a  straightforward  ques- 
tion ;  and  they'll  lie  fast  enough,  of  their  own  tongue  : 
and  then  the  priest  was  there  that  time,  and  he  wasn't, 
the  other." 

"  You're  too  severe  upon  Ronum  Catholics,"  said  Mr. 
Wellou,  "  Many  of  them  art)  much  like  our  own  people." 

"  Not  upon  her  sort  o'  Roman  Catholics,"  answered  the 
constable ;  "  I  know  'em,  sir, — too  W(;ll." 

"  W(!  seem  to  have  traced  her  to  just  about  that  place," 
said  Mr.  Wellon,  musing  ; — "  so  far  she  seems  to  have 
gone  on  her  own  feet, — and  alone." 

— "And  there  they  picked  her  up,  when  she  fell  down," 
said  the  constabh^,  "  and  then  those  nuns  carried  her  off." 

"  What  nuns  ?  " 

"  That  Cap'n  Nolesworth  saw  ;  and  this  Yankee, — Mr. 
Banks,  they  call  un,  sir, — he  was  prying  about  there,  last 
night,  just  when  these  nuns  were  going  away  from  the 
house.  When  he  was  telling  his  story  he  said  they  car- 
ried something ;  and  so  I  followed  un  up.  He  couldn't 
tell  what  it  was,  for  the  night  was  dark  ;  but  there  were 
two  or  three  women,  and  carrying  something  among  'em 
down  the  Worrell,  there,  liiiing  a  stranger,  he  didn't 
want  to  be  brought  in,  he  said ;  'twould  knock  up  liis 
busin(.*ss." 

"  It's  a  pity  he  hadn't  helped  carry  her  down,  w  bile  he 
was  about  it!"  said  the  Parson;  "and  then  we  should 
have  had  some  better  evidence." 

"  Then  there's  Ca[)'n  Nolesworth  knows  what  he's 
about ;  and  he  come  right  across  their  punt,  and  had  a 
gooc   look  at  it,  with  his  lantern.     They  pulled  for  dear 


l.'M) 


iiiK  NKW  ruiisr. 


P^'Hi 


liU» ;  ImiI   hi'     :»\  i  !»«'"><  '•nn*  Ih»  >m\v  '.oinrltotlv  llw'\   writ* 
lh»l«liM>i   \i|v       ThMl'n   liow    her  «'M|»  ;mi1   down  iln  re,"  con- 

riuM'lrrjiviuinnvMSHtnwK  with  ( Jilpin't  ^iMlnncnl.  which 
WM>*  conlirm*  (1.  >^h".h(l\.  h\  ihc  li'w  tii'cumslaiUMM  and 
(juMh  oI    thi'  rn-^c  wilhiii  ihcif  Knikwh'dijc. 

"  \\\\\,"  <;\\\\  hi',  "there's  tio  piool',  ;n»d  who  \\o  \y)\\ 
Mippo'^i*   is  ;it    th(>  hoitotn  ol'  it  r" 

"I  htdioxe  (Jiinuw  CmUoimh  is.  sit":  Mini  thMl  piicsi, 
KMlhor  Nicholas. "  Mi-.  >N»'lIon  smih'd.  "  And  then 
that  u«>w  piiC'l  ju-t  »(Mni\ij>  hcfc  I  "  cxclaiincd  the  con- 
stahh>. 

"It's  ;»  '  pt>pi>l\  ph)l.'  with  a  \<MioramM<!"  said  (ho 
l\uson  :  '  wiih  priests  .and  nuns  and  :\\\.  Ihil  whal 
.'dionld  she  Ao  it  lor  ?  and  w  h.al  should  the  pri(<sls  and 
nnns  ho  eoneerned   in   i(    for  ?  " 

"  \{  (iiannv  I'.alloran  irel  a  lair  «'hanee  al  one  ol'  IMrs. 
U;\rbnr\ 's  dan«:hler-i.  -r.y.  and  one  that  voniiii'  Ihslon 
>V!\s  leavitijr  iheir  ]>rie'-thood  lor.  -sh«''d  d«>  it  last  «MUMii!,h, 
sir.  I'll  ii'o  h;ul.  Sh«''d  steal  'em  lo  make  Komans  of '«>m  ; 
Mud  she'd  steal  her  lo  sr<M  her  ont  o\  his  way  ;  and  the 
|>ri«^sls  at\d  nuns  \\  he  ready  enoiiirh  lo  lend  ;»  hand  at. 
ih.al  work,  and  no  mi-^tak*'.  "Tw.as  oidv  t'other  dav  ihoro 
>vas  ih.at  ea>(^  al  hom(\  in  l-.anea-hir*'." 

"A\.hnl  l.ney  ean'l  have  conspired  with  ihem,"  said 
llu^  Parson,  npon  whom  (lilpin's  eonvielions  made  somo 
ini}>ressi«Mi  ;  -— "  iT  thert^'s  any  ihinj;-  sure  on  (>ar(h  I  " 

*'  1  i\-\n'l  s;\y  lor  iliai.  sir."  said  (tilpin  :  hnl  then,  cor- 
reotinji  himselT.  «lid  jn-li»v>  \o  l.ncy.  wiihonl  injnsliee  to 
his  ar<:nmenl.  "Oh  no!"  said  he.  "  it'  lliere's  trntli  (>» 
o.'^rtli.  slug's  a-el  it  ;  hnl  she's  been  orazy.  hy  spurts,  ever 
pinoe  she  was  sick,  you  know,  sir." 

"  To  bo  snro,"  answerod  the  rnrson  ;  "hut  sho  hasn't 


'0  to 
\  on 


NMIICII    WAY    SI'SI'H'IMN    I,IAI»S.  I.'i? 

nm  MWMV  t'M'iv  «Imv  ;  mikI  I  ilon'l  sii|t|Ht;(»  llirsr  iiiiihi 
liMVi>  Ix  (  M  i)\<>i-,  <>\tiv  iliiy  ;  Mini  llii'V  li:i|)|M<iiri|,  Huiiin 
liow.  Ill   li<<    just    in   liin<>." 

"  Sn  iIh'v  inijilil,  Mir,  llicy  mi^'Jil  ;  jii '(  iis  il  liii|i|ii'iin| 
ilinr  wiiM  muImmI^'  willi  l/iii'v,  iiml  iioliodv  in  iIh*  wiiy,  on 
llic  wlioli'  piilli.  'I'lio  nnn-i  nrrr  llino,  nuy  wuy,  sir;  ntol 
Lncv  U'lis  down  (line,  .Icsso  stiw  lirr  on  llic  roiid  ;  tiiid 
IIhmo'm  licr  riMvor  hook, — conii*  oiil  u' llio  lioimo ;  and  llio 
nuns  I'liri  iod  Miunolliin^  down  ;  Mtid  von  loiiml  licr  <'ii|i 
d«»wn  ht'low  :  mid  Micro  wjh  iIio  one  ('!i|/n  Nolcsworlli 
s{i\v  in  ilio  |»niil,"  Miisworrd  llio  mnsiMl  ir,  Miininiiii^  ii|i, 
vorv  ('lV('fli>oly  ;  "iiml  (JiMiinv  ('iiIIoimii  nrniid  lo  niiswrr, 
till  llio  priost  toM  lior  iiow  ;  iind  doiiiji;  licr  worst  not  |i 
lot  inc  lijivc  tliMt  Imok  :  niid  lie  liclpinjr  licr," 

"  Ilttw  do  yon  niciin  '  Icllinijr  lici-  liow  In  niiswcr?'  " 
"  I  Msks  licr,  '  lliivc  yon  seen    Mr.   ri>iilnny's  diin;^lilci 
Hine«»  y(>s((>rd;iy  iiKM-nin;:,  ?  '    lliiee  liiiies;   nii<l  she  pi  ' 
oil*  \yilli    Irish   pMhivcr;  iiiid   then   he  snys, 'yon   i 
keep  \'in    Nvniliiiii;,    Min.  (';illorMii ;  yon    enii    tell    w 
yon  know  where  she  is;'   :ind    so  she   snys,  liist    ci 

t      IV. >.  I  .!.>••'<  I      IXltl'  .UK-        IIIOIW.         lll'lll  I  l/ll..ttU  Itlll.. 


r, 

niM  n\r 

needii'l. 

whelhrr 

'iion;;h. 

lh(> 


yon  know  where  she  is;'  :ind  so  she  snys,  liist  cn(»n;;h. 
'  No;  I  ilon't  know,  .'iny  nun'o  tliiin  I  knows  wliert?  the 
Injins  is;'  or  '  the  wild  liijins.'" 

"  Do  von  think  yoinijx  Urslon  is  concerned?" 
"  I  don't  think  lie  is,  sir;  he  doesn'l  seem  likt^  it.  lie 
didii'l  s(M'in  to  he  one  of 'cm  Tollu'r  djiy.  lie's  very  much 
cut  np.  Mild  he's  heen  out  mII  ni;^lil  ;  hut.  lliMt  isn't  mII. 
When  1  sMW  ihinijs  lookiii;^  that  wny,  I  llioii«i,lit  I'd  nwike 
one  ol"  'cm.'ii'  I  could,  whil(>  tliMt  priest  wms  there;  Miid 
I  ^ot  one  (Mr  in  Minoii;;  'em,  lar  enon;^li." 

"The  priest  talked  very  seri(tns  to  the  yonn^  mimii,  and 
said  'he  wms  s(»rr\'  lor  his  disMppoiiitment  ;  it  seemed  m 
v.  li.'dion  ol'  (iod,'  he  said.  'Now  he'd  Iind  he  conldirt 
S(M  his  heart  on  earthly  ihiii"';-  ;   and  the  only  way  was  to 


m 

1      '  'i  ■! 

1 

l|  Ij, 

1 '  1 

Vi 

■ 

jl 

? 

1  ; 

1 

1; 

•;| 

lif- 

;■ 

1  1.  ■ 

; 

t   ■ 

i  ■ 

;j 

!i::^ 

yiAl\ 

) 

i- 

' 

^ 

; 

■;; 

158 


THE  NIiW   PKIEST. 


fly  to  God  while  the  wound  was  fresh  ;  to  think  of  his 
promises  ;  and  to  think  what  he'd  cast  away.'  He  said 
'  others  had  been  through  it ; '  (and  it  seemed  as  if  he'd 
cry,  while  he  was  about  it ;)  '  but,'  he  said,  '  they'd  found 
the  balm,'  or  '  the  myrrh ' ;  and  then  he  came  to  busi- 
ness, and  told  un  '  to-niorrow  was  the  very  day  for  un  to 
go  to  St.  John's  ;  and  he'd  go  along  with  un,  and  there 
was  a  glorious  path  for  un.'  Mrs.  Calloran  only  vexed 
un,  with  telling  him  how  Protestants  despised  un." 

"  You  listened  to  some  purpose,"  said  the  Parson. 

"  Well,  sir,  I'd  good  reason." 

"And  how  did  he  take  it  all  ?  " 

"  He  told  the  priest  '  he  was  sorry  to  disappoint  un ; 
but  his  iaind  was  made  up,  and  he'd  given  over  being  a 
priest ; '  and  then  there  was  a  stir  among  'em,  and  I  come 
away,  and  in  two  or  three  minutes  the  priest  was  riding 
away  home." 

The  clergyman  pate  a  little  while  in  thought,  and  then 
said : — 

"  If  they  carried  her  away,  it's  a  very  strange  thing ! 
There  seems  certainly  a  clue  as  fine  as  a  spider's  web, 
leading  to  that  suspicion." 

"  It  looks  as  plain  as  a  ship's  wake  to  me,  sir,"  said 
Gilpin,  his  eye  shining  like  the  star  that  guides  sailors  on 
a  trackless  sea. 

"  But  what  can  we  make  of  it,  beyond  suspicion  ?" 

"  If  we  had  a  magistrate  that " the  constable  began, 

in  a  tone  of  small  observrmce  towards  the  greater  official 
under  or  around  whom  he  moved. 

"  We've  got  a  magistrate,"  said  the  Parson,  smiling 
taking  the  words  as  if  there  had  not  been  a  "  that "  at 
their  end  ;  "  and  we  must  get  all  this  before  him.  Will 
you  go  to  Mr.  Naughton,  and  tell  him  what  you've  seen 


WHICH  WAY  SUSPICION  LEADS. 


159 


k  of  his 
He  said 
if  he'd 
'd  found 
to  busi- 
br  un  to 
id  there 
y  vexed 

an. 


)int  un ; 

being  a 

I  I  come 

IS  riding 


ind  then 

thing ! 
ir's  web, 

ir,"  said 
ailors  on 

in?" 

began, 
r  official 

smiling 
hat"  at 
I.  Will 
ve  seen 


and  heard  ?  and  I'll  make  a  memorandum  of  what  we've 
been  over  to-night,  to  serve,  if  there'.s  occasion." 

"  And  we'd  better  not  talk,  sir,  I  sup^Dse  ?  " 

"  Oh !  no.  Is  that  INIr.  Bangs,  th»^  American,  to  be 
had,  if  he's  Avanted  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Wellon. 

"  He's  going  to  set  yp  a  shop  here,  in  fall,  I  believe, 
sir.  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  he'd  gone  down  to  Bay  Har- 
bor (whatever  he's  after)  : — he  asked  me  if  I  thought  he 
could  do  a  little  trading  with  the  priests,  there. — And 
Cap'n  Nolesworth's  at  Bay  Harbor,  by  this  time." 

"  Well,  then,  we  can't  do  more,  now,  than  pray.  If 
anything  twns  up,  to-morrow,  please  let  me  know." 
The  constable  had  sometiiing  more  upon  his  mind ;  and, 
as  he  rose  to  go,  said  hesitatingly  :  — 

"I  suppose  you  heard  about  this  noo  priest,  an'  the 
widow-lady,  Mrs.  Berry,  sir?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  the  clergyman. 

"  There's  stories  going  about  the  harbor  that  they've 
had  meetings  down  at  some  Roman's  —  in  Mad  Cove, 
they  say — and  passed  some  high  words.  One  of  'em  seems 
to  have  some  sort  of  claim  on  t'other,  or  they're  relations 
or  something.  Some  says  it's  about  a  great  fortin  ;  that 
he's  her  brother,  and  wants  to  get  all  aw^ay  for  his 
church.  (They  say  he  looks  like  her.)  I  hears  he  got 
into  a  great  passion. — I  don't  believe  very  bad  of  un ; 
an'  Skipper  George  an'  everybody  gives  un  a  good  name 
for  being  civil-spoken  an'  kind." 

"  You're  right,  Charles ! "  said  the  Parson.  "  Good- 
night ! " 

A  v^^eek's  work  was  done :  a  heavy  burden  lay  over ! 


1 


m 


1   I 


■/I  I. 


1  ■■   ♦ 


P|fr"PiF 


IGO 


THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


S!  Ill 


CHAPTER  XVIIL 


THE    DAY   FOR   REST. 


\\    ,.|  > «.' 


i-T""!!!' 


N  the  next  day,  Sunday,  it  may  well  be  thought 
that  the  church  showed  signs  of  general  sorrow ; 
tidings  had  come  from  every  quarter,  and  nothing 
could  be  heard  of  Lucy  Barbury.  Before  the  flag  (which 
had  not,  that  morning,  flung  its  white  cross  abroad  upon 
the  fresh  air,  but  had  hung  heavily)  was  hauled  down, 
the  little  parties,  by  land  and  water,  gathered,  anxious 
and  agitated-looking,  instead  of  wearing  the  Day's  peace; 
and  silently  and  straight  down  the  road,  with  his  broad 
head  bowed,  came  Skipper  George,  without  his  wife,  and 
escorted  by  Jesse  Hill  and  Isaac  MafFen  on  the  one  side, 
and  Mr.  Skilton  (the  second  smith)  on  the  other.  Sev- 
eral women,  of  his  family  and  neighbors,  followed  him  in 
silence.  As  the  brave  man  came  to  the  point  at  which 
he  was  to  turn  up  from  the  road  to  the  church-door,  he 
gave  one  glance  over  to  the  sea,  and  one  over  the  land  ; 
then,  as  if  forgetting  himself,  took  oflT  his  hat  in  the  open 
air.  At  the  instant,  every  man's  head  was  silently  un- 
covered, and  every  woman  dropped  a  silent  courtesy. 

It  had  been  custoniary  to  chant  the  Canticles  and 
Doxology,  as  well  as  to  sing  the  Metre-psalms  and 
Hymns ;  but  this  day,  the  chief  bass  (Skipper  Charlie) 
was  not  in  his  place.    Mr.  Piper's  violin, — which,  for  love 


iii 


THE   DAY   FOR   REST. 


161 


,5 


and 
and 
larlie) 
3r  love 


of  tho  owner,  a  good-natured  Irislitnan,  was  allowed  to 
set  the  pitch  and  go  with  the  voices, — did  not  appear ; 
and  (what  was  the  great  want)  there  was  no  heart  for 
singing.  Even  the  Clerk,  Mr.  Williamson,  trying  to 
lead,  broke  down.  The  answering  of  the  people  was 
more  full  than  usual ;  and  when  the  priest,  at  the  peti- 
tion "  to  succor,  help,  and  comfort  all  that  are  in  danger, 
necessity,  and  tribulation,"  added,  "  especially  George 
Barbury,  our  brother,  and  his  family,"  thus  bhiding  their 
special  sorrow  to  the  prayer  of  millions,  and  of  ages,  the 
great  voice  of  the  congregation  trembled  ;  and  again,  at 
the  next  petition,  for  them  that  travel  by  sea  or  land, 
there  was  a  general  feeling,  as  if  a  wind  from  the  dec^p 
Bay  or  dreary  Barrens  had  blown  in.  So  morns  went  by 
at  church,  sadly.  Tlie  INIinister  preached,  out  of  his  heart, 
about  the  Lord's  having  all  in  his  hand.  . 

After  the  forenoon  service,  Jesse  edged  himself  up  to 
the  Minister,  and  said  : — 

"  'Ee  could  n'  'ave  e'er  a  funeral  sarvice,  could  'ee,  sir, 
for  Uncle  George,  to  comfort  un  up,  a  bit  ?  " 

Gilpin  was  near  enough  to  hear,  (indeed,  good  Jesse 
looked  aside  to  him,  during  the  saying  of  it,  for  his  suf- 
frage,) and  the  eye  of  the  constable  twinkled ;  but  he  did 
not  smile  at  the  honest  fellow's  mistake. 

"  Please  God,  we  may  find  her  alive  yet,  Jesse,"  said 
he. 

"  I  wish  we  mought,  indeed,  Mr.  Gulpin,"  returned  the 
fisherman  ;  "but  I  don't  think  jt." 

Isaac  Maffen  shook  his  head,  in  melancholy  confirma- 
tion. 

"  You  won't  forget  Mrs.  Barre,"  said  Miss  Dare,  to  the 
Minister,  when  she  had  opportunity. 

Gilpin  followed  the   magistrate,  Mr.  Naughton  ;  and, 

11 


162 


THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


-I 


'■i    IV 


\l  : 


is, 


i 


i 


i» 


having  come  to  speech  with  liira,  began  to  lay  his  case 
before  him. 

"  It  '11  be  cleared  up,  Charles,"  said  the  magistrate,  sen- 
tentiously,  by  the  time  they  got  to  the  solid  part  of  it. 

"  Not  without  taking  the  law  to  it,  I'm  thinking,  sir," 
said  Gilpin. 

'-  You  couldn't  do  any  thing  about  it  on  Sunday,"  an- 
swered the  stipendiary. 

"  It  isn't  a  civil  prossess,  you  know,  sir ;  it's  criminal." 

"  That  depends  upon  what  it's  called,"  said  the  magis- 
trate ;  "  but  I'm  obliged  to  go  away,  as  soon  as  possible, 
out  of  the  harbor.  If  there's  any  thing  to  be  done,  I'll 
attend  to  it  when  I  come  back.     I  shall  act  deliberately.'* 

So  saying,  the  Stipendiary  hurried  through  his  own 
gate. 

Gilpin  looked  iifter  him,  a  moment,  witli  a  curious  twist 
on  his  lips  ;  then,  nodding  his  head,  as  if  he  knew  of 
another  way,  went  up  the  liarbor.  Mr.  Naughton's  house 
was  apart  from  the  road,  and  near  the  cliff  on  which  the 
flagstaff  stood. 

The  constable  passed  the  drung  *  that  led  up  to  his 
forge  and  dwelling,  and  keeping  on,  to  Mr.  Worner's, 
knocked  at  the  door,  and  asked  for  Miss  Dare. 

He  took  off  his  hat,  and  scratched  his  head  with  his 
forefinger,  in  the  presence  of  the  young  lady ;  and  then, 
having  obtained  leave  to  speak  with  her  a  moment,  on 
important  business,  he  changed  her  astonishment  into 
extreme  agitation,  by  sf^ying,  "  I've  come  about  Skipper 
George's  daughter,  please.  Miss  Dare." 

"  What  of  her  ? — Is  she  found  ? — Is  any  thing  heard 
of  her  ?  *'  wshe  cried,  turning  paler  than  ever,  but  keeping 
command  of  herself 

*  Narrow  way:  Old  Kiiglish  from  tlio  same  source  as  throng. 


ft 


an- 


THE   DAY  FOR   REST. 


163 


"  Not  exactly,  Miss ;  but  there's  some  track  of  her, 
I  believe.  I  taink  there's  some  living,  and  no  great 
ways  off,  that  could  tell  about  her,  if  they  were  made 
to." 

"  Well,  IJfeinow  you've  got  plenty  of  honest  hearts  and 
hands  to  help  you  :  but  if  money  is  needed,  or  will  do 
any  thing,  don't  spare  it.  It  won't  be  wanting : — and  do 
follow  out  the  least  thing,  won't  you  ?  I  wish  I  could  do 
something  more  about  it." 

"  I'll  try  and  do  my  [)art.  with  a  heart  and  a  half,"  said 
the  constable  ;  "  and  there  is  something,  Miss,  if  you'll 
excuse  me  for  thinking  of  it ; — it's  a  little  uncommon, 
I  know.  If  you'd  only  just  please  to  speak  to  Mr. 
Naughton,  and  get  un  to  do  soraetliing." 

"  But  I'm  not  the  person,"  sjiid  the  young  lady,  "  to 
speak  to  Mr.  Naughton  about  his  duty." 

"  It  looks  strange,  I  know,"  answered  the  constable  ; 
"  but  Mr.  Naughton  isn't  like  everybody.  I've  been  to 
un  about  it,  and  I  couldn't  do  any  tiling  with  un.  *  He 
hadn't  time  :  he  was  called  away.'  I  knows  un.  He'll 
be  out  o'  the  harbor  in  half  an  hour." 

"  But  Mr.  Wellon  would  be  the  proper  person  to  speak 
to  him." 

"  It's  a  busy  day  with  his  reverence,"  said  Gilpin  ; 
"  and  besides.  Miss,  there's  nc  time  to  lose  j  he'll  be  along, 
directly." 

"  But  what  am  I  to  try  to  do  ?  " 

"  To  get  him  to  take  up  some  parties  that  ai'e  sus- 
pected, please.  Miss  Dare." 

"  What !  not  of  murderinij  her  !  " 

"  No,  Miss  ;  I  don't  know  what's  been  done  to  her." 

"  Well,  I  don't  want  to  think  about  it,  till  we  know 
something  more  ;  but  if  I  can  do  any  thing,  I'm  sure  I 


% 


'1 


J!) 


M 


i 


11  ^i 


i' 


^ 

M 

■] 

il 

11 

r 

*^  ■ 

wi 

r''" 

s 

|t 

1 

101 


TlIK   NKW    PKIKST. 


will,  willi  all  my  licurt,  nM  you  say.     Ccrtuinly  I'll  spoa!: 
to  INIr.  Niniiilifoti.  il'lliMl's  tlio  cmso." 

"  riiMuU   v<>«.!.  Miss;  ntid   III  p)  onl   llio  bnck  wny,  if 
you  please  ;  lie  nuisln'l  know  (IimI  I  wm-  here." 

Aflcr  Ihc  coMslMltlc's  (l(>|)!irlMi'«',  Miss  Dan^  stutioiied 
luM'sclf  uear  llio  ixardcii  ftMU'c  by  llic  road,  juul  pn'srutly 
the  solid,  flat  lioi'sc-lijunp,  which  hrin^s  lo  i\u\  mind  im- 
s!iuo*ividy  lh(>  imaire  oi"  a  man  viAw^  and  rallin<]j  in  tho 
saddle,  on  a  V(  n  hard  and  sl(>\v-j:;oin<jj  boast,  (•.•imo  to  her 
ear.  Alter  a  iiine.  the  horse  and  his  rider  made  (heir  jip- 
p«>arane<\  the  laKer  seeminu;  lo  be  u;e(lin;j:;  on  taster  than 
the  t'ornier.  e\e(«pt  Ihal  In;  nev<'r  ixot  over  his  hejul. 
Which  saw  Miss  Dan*  Urst,  (lor,  though  iheri^  was  somo 
shrnbbery.  there  w<M'e  no  lre(>s  of  jiny  eonseqneneo  on 
INIr.  Worner's  ])i'emises,)  eatinol  ho  said;  the  ('IVeets  on 
(\'ich  were  simnllaneous.  JNIr.  Nan^hton  did  not  let  it 
aj>pear  that  he  was  conscious  of  her  presence,  unless  in- 
\oiuiitarilv,  by  blushini;  and  lookini;^  very  deliberately  to 
each  side  of  the  road,  and  by  showy  horsemanship.  The 
horse  (called  "  Donk"  for  his  tail)  seemed  to  think  that 
a  little  siilliui;' miiiht.  be  useful  and  ornamental,  and  mi<;ht 
brinij  them  up  to  the  fence,  where  the  youuir  lady  stood  ; 
and  th(Mi  he  could  nibble  the  i^rass,  or  shut  his  eyes  and 
meditate,  while  the  two  human  beings  amused  themselves 
with  conversation. 

The  beast  siu'ccinled  :  Mr.  Naughton  put  the  best  grace 
upon  it  that  he  could,  and  sat  up  on  his  steed,  a  short 
man,  with  small  eyes  an<l  large  whiskers. 

Miss  Darin's  uildrt'ss  to  (he  ma«;istrate  ixa.ve  no  evidcMice 
of  her  having  seen  anything  ridiculous  in  his  [)rogress. 

*'  You're  not  going  away  just  now,  of  all  times,  Mr. 
Naughton,  surely,"  said  she,  "  when  you're  the  ouly  mag- 
istrate ?  " 


^i 


TMK   DAY    FOR   UKST. 


Ifif) 


Mce 


"  Am  1  Ut  ll)ilt(!r  niyscilf,  then,  tlint  my  going  or  stay- 
ing m  of  Jiny  coiiHCfiMcncci  lo  INIiHi  l);ir(5?'' 

"  ('Ortniiily  ;  .'uid  to  rvoryWody  in  tli(^  |)l!ic(\'' 

"  I  icnnw  a  niJigi.slriiti!  wiis  of  Honio  littlo  conscquonco 
to  tii(^  Ht!it(!  and  to  tlio  coMunmiity,"  returned  Ik;. 

"Tlierii  Ciin  Im^  only  oiu^  feeling  in  the  eoinniunity," 
said  the  young  lady,  as  Mr.  Nangliton  drew  suddenly  up 
the  roin,  to  resume  ills  [irogress. 

Animadon  s(iein(!d  to  be  dilfused  through  the  body  of 
the  quiescent  Donk  by  ele(;trieity,  (though  not  so  fust  as 
lightning,)  for  the  memorable  tail  went  up  by  a  jerk,  like 
that  of  th(i  more  intelligent  niember,  to  whieli  the  l)ridle 
was  attaeluMl,  though  with  a  slight  intxirval,  Mr.  Naugh- 
ton,  this  time,  attem[)ted  no  eanicolingor  eaprieoling,  but 
studied  to  combine  the  several  wills  of  man  and  beast  on 
one  contimious  (and  pnUty  rapid)  motion.  If  he  did  not 
at  once  nor  entirely  succeed,  even  with  frequent  sharp 
8[>urring,  Miss   Dan^  was  not  there  to  see. 

At  Evensong,  the  magistrate  was  in  his  place  at 
church  ;  half  an  hour  afterward,  having  briefly  listened 
to  Charles  Gilpin,  he  issued  the  decided  order:  — 

"You'll  bring  tho.se   parties  before  rae  by  ten  o'clock 


J) 


to-morrow  mornmg 

"  I  shall  want  a  warrant,  you  know,  sir,"  said  Gilpin. 

Whether  the  stipendiary  had  forgotten,  or  wished  to 
consult  his  "Justices'  Assistant,"  he  maintained  his  dig- 
nity, and,  at  the  same  time,  the  symmetry  of  his  arrange- 
ments. 

"  You'll  call  for  that  at  ten  o'clock  this  evening," 
said  he. 


^^ii 


ag- 


1 


I 


1'; 

'i  •■ 

i 

"  4 

1 

i 

till 

i 

1 

iii:i''i': 

■|      1  r 

1  i'  :■ 


I 


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ir>6 


THK   NKW   PRIEST. 


CHAPTER  XIX 


UHPECTED    PERSONS. 


E  pass  t<'  the  next  day,  the  vane  of  suspicion 
ha\i  g,  w''^  n    twenty-four  hours,   (tliough  no 
man  could  say  diut  any  wind  had  been  blowing) 
got  round,  and  pointed  straight  to  Mr.  Urston's  house. 

On  the  Sunday  afternoon,  young  Urston  had  been  at 
church,  and,  after  service,  Skipper  George  had  called  the 
young  man  to  himself,  and  walked  with  him  quite  over  to 
the  Backside.  He  was  not  suspected ;  but  rumors  had 
got  about  that  tln^ee  females  went  away  in  the  punt,  in 
which  only  two  had  come. 

On  this  Monday  morning,  that  sound  so  interesting  to 
boys  and  men,  of  hammer  ringing  upon  anvil  was  not 
heard  at  Skipper  Charlie's  smithy ;  nor  that  other,  of 
blended  human  voices,  telling,  asking,  speculating  upon 
the  news  or  gossip  of  the  place ;  for  here,  where  are  no 
barbers  shops  or  coiFee-houses,  every  thing  that  is  to  be 
told  and  heard  is  brought  to  the  smith's  forge,  and,  be- 
ing heated  hot,  is  laid  upon  the  anvil,  pounded,  turned, 
and  pounded  into  a  final  shape.  The  smith  and  con- 
stable himself, — whose  manifold  name  of  Gilpin,  Galpin, 
Gulpin,  might  remind  one  of  the  derivation,  Nipkin — 
napkin — diaper — draper — tailor,  or  the  more  classic 
dlmmj^ — 7ti^ — pax — JJUJC — fUCf)JS — fox — was,  at  about 
eight  o'clock,  walkmg  quickly,  with  several  companions, 


RTISPECTKD   PKKSONS. 


1G7 


along  a  path  that  led  from  near  his  house  downward  on 
the  liacksidf.  With  him  were  William  Frank,  commonly 
called  iiilly  ">ow,  Zebcdee  Marchaut,  Natlum  Marchant, 
Jesse  Hill,  and  Isiuic  INTafFen,  who  had  severally  (except 
t!ie  last  two)  fallen  in  behind  him  at  different  pomts, 
like  the  involuMtia'y  followers  in  some  of   the   German 

"  Can  'ee  walk  in  ef  the  door  shouldn'  be  open,  Skip- 
per Charlie  ? "  asked  Billy  Bow,  who  was  considered  a 
gi'eat  humorist  by  his  neighbors. 

"  It'll  go  hard  if  I  can't  get  into  e'er  a  housr  ^hat's  got 
a  door  or  window,  open  or  shut,"  answered  th"  oo;    table. 

"  'E's  got  to  keep  the  king's  peace,"  said  Mil)  Jow  ; 
"  an'  I'm  afeared  'e'll  get  it  broke  into  a  goo('   liin    pieces." 

"  Ef  the  constable  kicks  up  e'er  a  rout,  l^oys, '  said  one 
of  the  others,  "'e'v-^  got  a  good  many  cr-  l  \u  tow,  that 
can  keep  un  from  hurting  'isself." 

"  It  would'n'  be  good  subjecks,  an'  show  respec'  to  the 
king,  ef  we  didn'  favor  'e's  constables,  after  'e's  abin  and 
tookt  the  trouble  to  appoint  'em,  an'  'e's  trusty  an'  well- 
beloving  yeoman,  Mr.  Charles  Gulpin,  petic'lar ;  we  mus' 
give  'em  a  chance  to  do  their  dooty,  'ee  knows,  Skipper 
Charlie,"  said  another  of  the  posse  comitatus. 

"  Let  me  ketch  ye  givin'  me  a  chance,  (without  there's 
good  cause  for  it,)  and  I'll  do  my  dooty  on  you,  very 
quick,"  returned  Skipper  Charlie. 

With  such  simple  attempts  at  wit,  did  the  quiet  and 
good-natured  Newfoundlanders  follow  their  "  officer ; "  and 
with  such  downright  authority  did  the  officer  maintain  the 
dignity  of  the  law  and  the  constabulary.  Other  topics 
also  occupied  them  :  Jesse  was  engaged  in  literary  criti- 
cism ;  having  listened  at  the  window  of  the  Wesleyan 
Meeting-house,  at  a  funeral,  and  then  given,  to  a  Wes- 


V 


I  i' 


t|" 


1^8 


TTIF,  NEW   PRIKST. 


leyan  friend  who  asked  it,  the  opinion  he  was  now  repeat- 


mg:- 


" '  Abner,'  I  says,  *  there  was  text  out  of  Scri{)ture, 
sure,'  I  says,  '  an'  a  little  about  how  we  ought  to  do,'  I 
says;  *jus*  like  anybody;  an'  then  varses  an'  scraps  o' 
poultry,  an'  such ;  an'  then  more,  agen,  an'  so  on ;  but  'e 
wasn'  a  proper-growed  sarmun,  at  all,'  I  says ;  '  not  what 
I  calls  proper-growed.'  So  then  he  couldn'  say  nothin' ; 
when  I  telled  un  that,  'e  couldn' " 

"  Come,  Jesse,  he  couldn't  answer  you"  said  the  con 
stable.  "  Now,  you  half,  go  across  here, — (1  don't  want 
any  more ;  if  any  comes,  send  'em  back,) — and,  when  ye 
git  within  hail  o'  the  house,  bring  up,  all  standing,  and 
lay  to  ;  an'  don't  stir  tack  nor  sheet,  till  I  tells  ye.  They'll 
be  just  about  coming  in  from  the  water." 

So — giving  his  orders,  like  a  good  general,  in  his  peo- 
ple's famihar  tongue — Gilpin  went  on  with  the  other  half 
of  his  followers.  Presently,  he  sent  off  a  second  detach- 
ment, with  like  instructions.  While  still  a  good  way  off 
the  place,  he  and  his  companions  were  astonished  at  see- 
ing in  front  of  them,  going  fast  in  the  same  direction,  the 
tall,  strong  figure  of  the  bereaved  father.  As  Skipper 
George  went  into  the  house,  they  kept  close  to  him. 

"I'd  best  call  himself,"  said  Mrs.  Calloran ;  "he's  just 
at  the  Worrell,  beyont." 

"  Ay !  call  un,  please,"  said  the  constable ;  adding,  as 
she  passed  out  of  hearing,  "  but,  if  anybody  knows  any 
thing,  you're  the  one,  I'm  thinking." 

The  father,  while  they  waited,  stood  with  his  face 
against  his  hand  upon  the  wall ;  his  grizzled  locks  looking 
so  innocent  and  touching,  that,  as  William  Frank  said 
afterwards,  "  a  body  could  sca'ce  look  at  un  wi'  dry  eyes ; 
it  was  so  feelun,  like." 


SUSrECTKI)    PKIISONS. 


169 


s  just 


»S' 


as 

any 


face 
oking 
:  said 
eyes; 


Mr.  Urston  came  in  very  frankly,  sliowing  no  surprise 
at  the  number  of  persons  present,  and  answered,  before 
he  was  asked  the  question,  "  that  lie  did  not  know  where 
Mr.  Barbury's  daujjhter  was ;  he  wished  he  did ;  he 
wouldn't  keep  it  to  himself  loniij." 

Skipper  Georj^r',  who  liad  turned  roun<l  at  the  sound 
of  footsteps,  sarik  heavily  down  into  a  chair.  It  was 
evident,  frorri  the  effect  of  these  words  upon  his  feelings, 
that,  in  spite  of  himself,  he  had  not  only  feared  but  hoped 
somethlr.g  from  this  visit,  and  that  the  hope  was  now 
smitten  within  him. 

"  Look  to  un,  some  of  ye  ! "  cried  Gilpin.  "  Handle 
un  gently." 

"  N'y  lovies,"  said  Skij>per  George,  catching  his 
breath,  as  if  he  had  been  through  a  severe  struggle  in  the 
waves,  "  thankee  !  Whatever  was  o'  George  Barbury, — 
thank  God !  thank  God ! — it  bides  here  yt ;  on'y  two 
tarrible  heavy  blows  on  the  same  place, — that's  lossing 
'er  before,  an'  now,  agen,  lossin'  that  false,  foolish  hope, — 
have  abrought  me  down.  I'm  a  poor,  sinful  Christen ; 
but  I  am  a  Christen,  an'  I  can  get  up. — I  believes  'ee, 
Mister  Urston  ;  I'm  sorry  to  trouble  'ee  ;  but  'ee  knows 
I've  alossed  mi/  child/  Some  thinks  'ee'd  want  to  turn 
her  from  her  religion ;  but,  ef  'ee  had  e'er  a  chance,  *ee 
wouldn'  make  a  cruel  trial  of  her  dear,  tender  heart,  nor 
her  faith  in  the  dear  Saviour  she  loved  an'  sarved  sunce 
ever  she  knovved  'E's  blessed  name  !     Would  'ee  ?  " 

There  was  something  very  affe(;ting  in  this  speech  and 
the  father's  tears  that  accompanied  it. 

Mr.  Urston  said  that  "  if  ever  he  should  hear  of  her,  or 
find  her,  or  any  trace  of  her,  the  father  should  hear  of  it 
as  soon  as  he  could  get  the  word  to  him  ;  "  and  he  said  it 
with  much  feeling.     "They  were  of  a  different  religion, 


12 


i 


n  1 


■1 


!  '  i^' 


■      ;|l 


170 


THK  NEW   I'RJEST. 


perliaps,  but  not  of  a  diflRn'ont  nature.  lie  felt  for  liim 
from  tlie  bottom  of  his  lieurt." 

"Ilor  faltli'.s  nothing;  that  can  be  turned  about,"  s.-nd 
James  Urston.     "It  would  j^o  through  tire  unhurt." 

At  this,  Mrs.  Calloran  made  some  reuiark,  aside  which 
could  not  be  overheard.  8ki|)j)er  George  thanked  the 
young  man,  and  rose  to  go,  declining,  kindly,  the  hospit- 
able invitations  urged  upon  him. 

"  Go  with  un,  Jesse,"  said  Skipper  Charlie  ;  and  Jesse 
and  his  adherent  went  out  with  him. 

"  Now,  I've  got  a  bit  of  disagree'ble  dooty  to  perform," 
said  the  constable,  as  he  proceeded  quickly  to  lay  his  hand 
upon  one  after  another  of  those  present,  and  to  arrest 
them. 

"  This  is  ray  Warrant,"  said  he.  "  I'm  doing  my  dooty, 
and  I'll  do  it  as  civilly  as  I  know  how.  I'm  commanded 
to  have  the  bodies  of  Bridget  Calloran,  and  Thomas 
Urst'^n,  and  James,  '  before  me,  the  worshipful  Ambrose 
Naughton,  Esquire,  Stipendiary  INIagistrate,  &c.  &c. ;  as 
witness  my  hand  and  seal  of  office.'  " 

Gilpin's  proceeding  astounded  Mr.  Urston  and  his  son, 
and  was  very  exciting  to  all  present ;  to  whom  capiases, 
and  warrants,  and  writs,  are  strange  things.  Even  the 
smile  with  which  Gilpin  (who  v/as  more  familiar  with 
such  things — theoretically,  at  least — )  read  Mr.  Naugh- 
ton's  indirect  assertion  of  his  official  dignity,  did  not  take 
from  the  excitement. 

"  Sure,  an'  is  this  English  law,  thin,  that  they  brag 
about .''  Bring  up  their  bodies  to  examine  thim !  Kill 
thim  first,  an'  try  thim  after  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Callo- 
ran. "  Is  this  the  way  it  is  wid  yes  ?  an'  is  this 
Protestant  justice  ?     Sure,  it's  small  justice  ye  can  do 


SUSri'CTKD   PKHSOXS. 


171 


>» 


an  a  rornips  !     And  do  you  raly  mane  to  kill  us,  thin, 
ar  what  ?  " 

Mrs.  Calloran  was  ready  to  contend  with  lior  tonjjue, 
as  in  the  encounter  of  two  days  hcfore ;  but  a  look  from 
Mr.  Urston, — who  acted  and  s[)oke  with  a  self-possession 
and  dijijnity  that  contrasted  stroiijj;!y  with  his  surround- 
ings,— put  her  to  silence. 

"  He  could  not  understand  this  most  extraordinary  pro- 
ceeding," he  said,  "and  knew  no  more  of  'abducting  or 
carrying  away*  Mv.  liarbury's  daughter,  than  the  father 
did ;  but  would  make  no  resistance  to  a  legal  warrant." 

For  Mv.  Jiarbury's  sake,  he  begged  that  his  premises 
might  be  thoroughly  searched.  The  constable  complied ; 
but  the  search  found  nothing. 

INIrs.  Calloran's  submission  in  Mr.  Urston'a  presence, 
could  not  prevent  her  crying  out  at  this  point, — 

"  Will  ye  sind  for  the  praste,  thin  ?  Sind  for  the 
praste !  There's  Father  Ignashis  is  at  Misther  O'Rourke'8 
beyant ;  they'll  niver  deny  us  the  sacramints  from  our 
own  clargy  !     Will  ye  sind  for  the  praste  r  " 

"  May  be  we'll  have  to  send  for  them  bimebye,"  said 
Gilpin  aside.  He  then  comforted  Mrs.  Calloran  with  an 
assurance,  "  that  she  should  hang  like  a  Christen,  if  she 
was  found  guilty." 

The  preparations  for  going  were  soon  made ;  the  con- 
stable assuring  his  prisoners  that,  at  any  rate,  they  could 
come  I'ome  a  bit  after  the  examination,  even  if  the  magis- 
trate ijl.ould  commit  them.  So  they  set  forth  for  the  wor- 
shipful niiigistrate's  presence. 

One  after  another  of  Gilpin's  former  escort  made  his 
appearance  by  the  way.  Jesse  Hill,  also,  and  Isa'tc 
Matfen  reappeared. 


hi  k 


'fll 

,  I 


m  v. 


;!  iir 


172 


THE  NEW   PRIEST. 


ill 

i^  '^ 

!  |i ; 

\ 

;|. 

i       ■ 

ilB 

'  ip' 

I'i'" 

1 

Mr.  Urston  coinpliinented  the  constable  upon  his  p:en- 
eralship  ;  but  assured  him  iliat  he  dichi't  want  so  much 
hel  n. 

"It's  good  to  have  enough  of  a  good  thing,"  said  the 
constable,  glancing  with  his  one  eye  over  his  troops. 
"  William,  you  take  command  o'  these  limbs  o'  the  law, 
will  ye?  Keep  about  two  or  three  cables'  length  astern, 
if  ye  know  how  much  that  is ;  or  as  much  more  as  ye 
like." 

So  Billy  Bow  took  charge  of  the  pos^e,  except  Jesse 
and  Isaac  (who,  with  the  constable,  made  one  for  each 
prisoner).  These  attached  themselves  to  the  immediate 
escort,  and  were  not  meddled  with.  Jesse  and  Isaac 
were  two  important  witnesses. 

Near  the  bush,  from  behind  which  Jesse  had  seen  his 
apparition  come  forth,  the  new  Priest  was  lingering  to 
meet  the  approaching  party.  Jesse,  at  sight  of  him, 
bristled,  a  good  deal  hke  a  sturdy  mastiff,  and  Isaac  felt 
contagious  animosity.  Mrs.  Calloran  expressed  herself  by 
tongue. 

"  Don't  look  at  us,  yer  riverence.  Father  Ignatius,"  she 
said,  though  he  could  not  hear  her,  and  could  only  have 
seen  the  zealous  and  eager  courtesy  that  she  dropped, 
afar  ofr";  "  don't  look  at  the  way  they  treat  us  for  being 
Catholics." 

"  You  may  as  well  keep  a  stopper  on  your  tongue, 
while  you're  my  prisoner,"  said  Gilpin,  peremptorily. 
"  I've  heard  a  good  name  of  this  gentleman ;  and  I  don't 
want  to  bring  un  into  trouble  for  meddling  with  an  officer 
in  the  execution  of  his  warrant." 

Father  Debree  stood  quite  unmoved  ui  the  e^'identIy 
hostile  expression  of  the  escort ;  or,  at  least,  if  not  un- 


a; 


t 


il  yn 


SUSPECTED  PEKSONS. 


173 


moved,  his  face  did  not  lose  any  thing  of  its  very  hand- 
some openness  and  dignity.  His  manner,  however,  was 
agitated. 

He  sakited  the  prisoners  and  conf.tahle,  and  even  Jesse 
and  Isaac,  who  looked  gruff  and  implacable,  exceedingly, 
and  scarcely  returned  the  salutation.  The  constable, 
though  not  cordial  or  over-coui'teous,  kept  himself  from 
showing  any  active  dislike.  The  priest  addressed  him  in 
a  very  prepossessing  voice, — 

"  I  think  you're  the  con.^table, — Mr.  Gilpin, — are  you 
Dot  ?  " 

"  I'm  constable,  sir,  for  want  of  a  better,"  said  Skipper 
Charlie  ;  "  and  blacksmith,  too." 

"  May  I  have  a  moment's  conversation  with  you  ?  " 

"  Not  about  my  prisoners  ;  I'm  going  with  'em  to  the 
magistrate's.  You  c-  .  pj  along,  sir,  if  you  please,"  said 
Gilpin,  but  falling,  at  the  same  time,  in  tiie  rear. 

"  You  mistake  me,"  said  the  Priest ;  "  I've  no  wish  to 
interfere  between  you  and  your  prisoners.  If  I  could 
be  of  any  servj  e,  in  a  i)ro[)er  and  lawful  way,  to  any 
one  whose  friend  I  ought  to  be,  I'm  sure  you  wouldn't 
blame  it ;  tut  I  want  to  ask  if  you  have  found  any 
thing  to  throw  a  light  on  Skipper  George's  daughter's 
fate?" 

"  I  hope  we  shall  find  out  about  it,"  said  the  constable, 
ambiguously. 

"Are  these  prisoners  arrested  on  suspicion  of  being 
connected  with  it  ?  " 

"  It'll  appeal  on  their  examination,  sir,"  answered 
Gilpin. 

"  I  don't  \vish  to  ask  any  improper  vjuestion  ;  but  I 
know  the  father,  and  1  know  her,  and  I  know  them,  and 
feel  very  mud   interested; — I  ask  as  a  I'riend." 


(  ; 


ill' 


i 


.    ii 


Ft 


174 


THE  NKW   PRIEST. 


Gilpin's  one  sharp  eye  had  been  fixed  on  tlie  speaker's 
face. 

••  I  don't  think  it  was  any  friends  have  made  way  with 
her,"  said  he,  and,  bowing,  moved  his  company  on. 


iii 


iker's 
with 


AN  OFFICIAL  EXAMINATION. 


175 


CHAPTER  XX. 

AN    OFFICIAL    EXAMINATION   Fi;OM   WHICH   SOMETHtNG 

APPEARS. 

)HE  magistrate's  house,  to  the  party  now  ap- 
proaching it,  looked  as  a  house  might  look,  which, 
built  in  very  ungainly  style  and  of  no  large  dimen- 
sioui?,  was  dignified  by  its  association  with  the  magistracy, 
and  now  clothed  in  all  the  awfulness  of  an  official  want 
of  animated  life.  Not  much  impression  seemed  to  settle 
upon  "  Mr.  Gulpin,"  or  his  prisoners,  who  walked,  with 
little  apprehension,  up  to  the  front  door;  unmindful  how 
the  gravel-stones  were  scattered  from  their  heels ;  but  to 
the  valiant  Jesse  and  the  valiant  Isaac  an  awful  figure  of 
spectral  personation  of  Authority  or  Infliction  seemed  to 
possess  the  gate  and  plant  its  shadowy  terrors  directly  in 
the  way.  They  drew  off  to  each  side ;  accounting  for 
their  movements  by  the  remark :  "  He  don't  want  none 
of  we  yet,  I  don't  suppose,  do  'e  ?  " 

On  the  arrival  of  a  second  squad,  however,  the  first, 
as  if  they  had  received  a  sudden  summons,  anticipated 
the  new-comers  by  a  hasty  mov«'ment,  which  brought 
them  to  the  door  in  time  to  mnke  their  way  into  the 
kitchen  ;  wliile  their  ofllcial  leader  and  his  captives  went, 
under  the  guidance  of  Mr.  Nanghton's  maid-of-all-work, 
into  the  presence  of  tlic  magistral'';  if  presence  it  could 


II 


f-    i 


t  '' 


•:>■■'  ■:% 


- 


176 


THE  NEW   I'KlEbT. 


be  called,  where  he  sate  with  liis  back  broadly  towards 
them. 

"  Please  your  worshipful,"  said  the  usheress,  "  it's  INIr. 
Gulpin,  sir;  wi'  some  that  'e've  caressed,  most  like,  sir." 

"  Directly ! "  answered  the  official  voice  ;  which  then 
proceeded  to  read  in  a  low  tone,  and  hastily,  out  of  souk; 
book  before  him,  "  '  both  houses  of  parliainont,  and  ' — I 
must  look  at  that  again  ;  seven  hundred  and  twenty- 
seventh  page." 

Meanwhile,  the  constable  leaving  his  charge,  for  a  mo- 
ment, standing  at  the  stipendiary's  back,  went  out  long 
enougii  to  give  a  message,  of  which  the  last  words  were 
heard,  as  he  enforced  theia  : — 

— "  And  mind  ye,  Jesse,  bring  un  along  :  don't  come 
without  un  ;  and  come  back  as  quick  as  you  can." 

The  ermine,  or  other  fur  of  the  magistrate,  set  itself 
up  at  this,  and  he  intimated  to  his  subordinate  that  'order 
and  silence  were  necessary  at  that  investigation.' — With 
a  large  dignity,  he  invited  Mr.  Wellon,  who  was  entering, 
to  a  seat. 

Having,  at  length,  received  the  constable's  return,  he 
proceeded  to  business  by  ordering  that  officer  to  swear 
the  prisoners  at  the  bar.  Gilpin  looked,  with  twinkling 
eye,  at  his  prisoners,  and  then  at  the  magistrate  : — 

"  What'U  I  swear  'em  to,  Mr.  Nanghton  ?  "  he  asked. 

"There's  a  copy  of  the  Holy  Evangelists  here,"  said 
the  stipendiary. 

"  I  can  find  Bibles  fast  enough,  sir :  but  they're  not 
witnesses." 

"  I  may  ask  them  some  questions  and  desire  their  an- 
;  wers  to  be  under  the  solemn  sanction  of  an  oath,"  an- 
swered the  ma«rit*trate ;  but  when  Mr.  Urston  had  the 
9^rPAi  Vohirnc  held  out  to  him,  he  decidedly  objected  ; 


id. 
I  stiid 

not 

an- 

an- 

the 

ted  ; 


AN  OFFICIAL  EXAMINATION. 


177 


insisting  th:it  if  he  and  ♦he  others  were  there  as  prison- 
ers, they  \vere  not  tliere  as  witnesses  ;  and  desiring  that 
the  accusation  might  be  read,  and  the  witnesses  exam- 
ined. 

The  magistrate  assured  him,  with  dignity,  that  that  was 
not  the  regular  order  of  judicial  proceedings,  but  th:.*;  he 
would  waive  the  point. 

Having,  in  his  own  way,  made  the  prisoners  acquainted 
with  the  charge,  he  said,  "  There  must  be  a  record  of  the 
proceedings  of  this  court !  Mr.  Williamson,  you  will  act 
as  clerk.  Constable,  qualify  Mr.  Williamson,  and  sum- 
mon the  vitnesses." 

The  constable  having  qualified  the  clerk,  called  "  Jesse 
Hill!"  but  tliere  was  no  answer;  and  he  called  Jesse 
Hill  again,  and  again  with  no  answer. 

"  I  sent  him  after  Mr.  13ank>,"  explained  Gilpin. 

"  S(niding  one  witness  after  another  is  quite  irregular; 
I  trust  that  it  will  not  occur  again.  It  will  be  my  duty 
to  suspend  the  proceedings  until  }0U  can  produce  Mr. 
Hill,  or  Barbury." 

At  this  moment,  Mr.  Naughton  noticed  Fath<r  Debree 
near  the  door,  attended  by  a  shuHling  of  feet  and  a  low 
buzzing  of  the  waiting  public.  The  magist  ite  witii 
dignity  invited  him  to  a  seat,  but  the  other  referred 
standing.  Mv.  W^ellon  attenipted  conversati<  with  his 
new  neighbor,  but  found  him  this  day  so  r«-erved  or 
preoccupied  as  to  give  little  encouragement  :o  the  at- 
t('mi)t. 

Mr.  Wellon,  during  the  absence  of  the  »  tn -table,  was 
entertained  by  the  stipendiary  with  an  argument  for 
having  a  "  lychnoscoi)e  "  introduced,  as  a  sacred  accessory, 
into  the  new  chancel  of  the  chin-eh  ;  the  earnest  advocate 
for  ecclesiological  development  claiming  thn/   the  thing 

12 


m 


i 


!i  M 


^:i 


., 


178 


THE  NEW   PRIEST. 


was  so  old  that  its  very  object  and  purpose  were  entirely 
unknown. 

Gilpin,  as  he  returned,  with  Jesse  (and  Isaac)  behind 
him,  said,  in  an  under  voice,  "  I  told  un  not  to  come  with- 
out Mr.  Banks  ;  an'  so  he  stuck  to  hi^  orders.  I  found 
un  sitting  on  one  rock  and  Ir^aac  Maffen  on  another, 
neither  one  of  'em  savin'  a  word." 

Tiu  Btipendiary  now  crowned  his  brow  with  the  awful 
rigors  of  justice  once  more,  and  sat  as  the  chief  figure  of 
the  scene.  The  witness,  having  been  sworn,  was  ques- 
tioned : — 

"  Mr.  Barbury,  proceed.     Are  you  a  witness  ?  " 

"  Is,  sir,  ef  it's  wantun,  I'll  tell  what  I  knows." 

The  noise  of  heavy  shoes  on  the  feet  of  those  of  the 
public  furthest  back  in  the  entry,  testified  to  the  unabated 
interest  with  which  Jesse's  story  was  expected. 

"  What's  your  name  ?  is  the  first  question." 

Jesse  M'as  redder  than  usual ;  but  he  saw  his  way,  and 
gladly  opened  his  mouth. 

"  Oh  !  'ee  wants  it  that  w'y,  do  'ee,  sir  ?  *  N  or  M  ' 
is  what  it  says." 

"  Ha !  you're  not  much  acquainted  with  legal  proceed- 
ings," said  the  magistrate,  throwing  a  sentence  loaded 
with  about  tlie  usual  amount  of  official  wit,  of  about  tlie 
usual  quality,  and  glancing  at  Mr.  Wellon  to  see  if  he 
took  the  joke. 

"■  What  is  your  name  ?  that's  all,"  said  he  again,  to  tite 
sim[)le-minded  testifier. 

"Jesse  Barbury's  my  name,  sir.  I  sposed  'ee  knowed 
that,  sir ! " 

"  The  Law  knows  nothing,  Mr.  Barbury.  Our  infor- 
mation is  from  the  evidence.  You  will  proceed  with  your 
^to^y,  Mr.  Barbury." 


lilt 


AN  OFFICIAL  EXAMINATIOX. 


171) 


Mr.  Barburj  procecdtMl  as  follows,  the  innjiistrate  os- 
tensibly iK'glecting  to  listen,  and  studiously,  with  much 
flutter  of  leaves,  comparing  one  place  with  another  in  his 
great  book. 

"I  was  aw'y  over,  t'other  side,  a-jiggin  squids,  I  was; 
and  Izik  Mafl'en  was  along  wi'  I ;  and  1  says  to  un,  '  Izik,' 
I  says,  '  'ee  knows  Willum  Tomes,'  I  says,  '  surely.'  '  Is, 
sure,'  'e  says,  '  I  does,'  to  me,  agen.  '  Well,  Izik,'  I  says, 
'  did  'ee  hear,  now,  that  'e  've  jdossed  'e's  cow  ? '  I  says." 

The  magistrate  oificially  cleared  his  throat  of  some 
irritation ;  the  Parson  wiped  his  face  with  his  handker- 
chief, a  circumstance  that  seemed  to  have  an  encouraging 
effect  upon  the  witness.     He  went  on  : — 

"  So  Izik  'e  says  to  I  agen,  '  No,  sure,'  'e  says,  '  did  un, 
then,  Jesse  ?  '  'Is,  sure,'  I  says,  '  'e've  alossed  she,  surely.' 
"With  that  'e  up  an'  says  to  I,  'A  losi^  is  i  loss,  Jesse,'  'e 
says.     '  That's  true,'  I  says." 

This  moral  reflection  brought  the  Parson's  handker- 
chief suddenly  to  his  face  again.  The  constable  received 
the  saying  with  less  self-control,  though  it  was  as  true  as 
any  sentence  of  the  Philosophers.  William  Frank,  who 
was  further  off,  commented :  "  Wull,  wisdom  is  a  great 
thing  ;  it's  no  use  !  " — Jesse  continued. 

" '  Izik,'  I  says  to  un,  agen,  '  Izik,'  I  says,  '  do  'ee  think, 
now,  would  n'  the  squids  do  better  a  little  furderer  up  ? ' 
I  says.  With  that  we  takes  an'  rows  up  tow'rds  River- 
head,  a  bit.  Wull,  after  bidin'  there  a  spurt,  I  axes  Izik 
what  e'  thowt  sech  a  cow  as  that  mijifht  be  worth.     I 


says   

"You  must  remember,  Mr.  Barbury,"  interposed  the 
Stipendiary,  "  that  the  time  of  a  magistrate  is  valuable, 
not  to  speak  of  the  time  of  the  others  that  are  here." 

"  Be  'e,  now,  sir  ?  "  said  the  poor  fellow,  getting  abashed, 


i «;   (S 


in)'  I 


I        1 


i 


180 


THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


r      i 


"  so  'e  must  b(;,  surely  ;  that's  a  dear  case.  Tliat's  a'most 
all  I've  agot  to  i<'y,  sir." 

""  Be<rin  just  where  you're  going  to  knock  off,  Jesse," 
siiiggcsted  the  constable. 

"  Wull,  Mr.  Gilpin,  I  were  goun  to  tell  about  what  I 
sid  myself." 

''  That's  the  very  thing,"  said  Mr.  Naughton ;  "  no 
matter  what  you  said,  or  what  was  said  to  you,  you  know." 

With  these  directions,  the  witness  paused  a  little,  hand- 
ling his  sou'wester  (hat). 

"  Whereabouts  was  we,  Izik  ?  "  he  asked  of  his  adju- 
tant. 

"  'Ee  was  lalkun  about  the  cow,  Jesse,  'ee  was,"  an- 
swered Isaac,  anxious  that  Jesse  should  do  justice  to 
himself. 

"  Wull,  sir."  Then  the  straightforward  witness  for  the 
Crown  began  :    "  I  was  jest  a  sayin  to  Izik,  I  was  " 

"Your  observations  and  those  of  your  companion  (or 
fi'iend)  are  of  comparatively  little  consequence,  Mr. 
B;.r])ury,"  said  the  magistrate,  who  must  have  had  a 
sta«i(lard  for  estimating  speech. 

"  He  means,  he  doesn't  care  what  you  and  Isaac  said," 
the  constable  prompted. 

"  'Is,  sir,  surely.     Wull,  Izik  says  to  I " 

"  Never  mind  the  sayins,  you  know,"  persisted  the  con- 
stable. 

The  witness  looked  like  some  animal  in  an  inclosure ; 
but  he  did  hit  upon  the  opening  in  it. 

"  Wull,  sir,  I  sid  a  some'at  all  in  white  clothes  a  comin' 
down  Backside-w'y,  (an'  Izik  Maffen,  'e  sid  the  same,  so 
well ;)  like  a  woman  or  a  mayd,  like,  an'  it  comed  right 
along  tuU  it  goed  right  aw'y,  like,  I  dono  how.  I  never 
sid  no  more  of  it." 


V 


no 


iin 


^ght 
!ver 


AN   OFFICIAL  EXAMINATION. 


181 


"  Did  you  Ftop  to  look  ?  " 

"  Is,  sir,  surely  ;  I  says  to  Izik,  '  Izik,'  I  says,  as  soon 
as  ever  I  could  speak, — for  I  was  dumb-foundered  entirely, 
first  guun  off, — '  Izik,'  1  says,  '  Did  'ee  ever  see  'e'er  a 
angel,  Izik  ?  '  *  No,  sure,  Jesse,'  lie  says,  '  how  should 
I  ?  '  '  WuU  then,'  I  says,  '  that  was  a  some'at  looked 
veiy  like  one,  seemunly,  to  my  thinkin,'  I  says,  '  O, 
Loi'dy  !  '  he  says — that's  his  way,  you  know,  sir, — '  what 
'ave  abecomed  of  'un  ?  Jesse,'  he  says.  '  Mubbe'  I  says, 
'  it  was  a  goun  somewhere,  tull  it  sid  we ;  an'  now  it's 
adone  a  doun  of  it,  for  a  notion  its  ahnd  I  says ;  sartainly 
we  tookt  swiles,  of  a  Sunday,  last  spring,'  I  says.  '  Hows- 
ever,'  I  says,  '  mubbe  we'd  best  knock  otf  now,*  an'  so  we 
done,  sir,  an'  corned  right  home,  sir,  round  the  land-head. 
That's  all  the  witness  I  knows." 

"You  may  retire,  Mr.  Barbury;  (unless  any  of  the 
prisoners  at  the  bar  desire  to  question  you.") 

This  privilege  the  prisoners  did  not  claim. 

There  was  a  monstrous  discharge  of  pent-up  breaths  at 
the  conclusion  of  this  evidence,  showing  that  a  good 
many  of  Jesse's  friends  were  in  the  passage  communicat- 
ing between  the  kitchen  and  the  parlor,  who  felt  that 
Jesse  had  more  than  satisfied  the  highest  expectations 
that  could  have  been  formed  about  his  testimony,  and  had 
contributed  to  the  fund  of  information  which  the  magis- 
trate was  gathering,  as  v^onderful  an  ingredient  as  any 
that  was  likely  to  be  produced  that  day.  To  his  friends, 
as  he  modestly  withdrew  from  the  blaze  of  importance, 
he  gave  the  intbrmation  for  the  hundredth  time,  perhaps, 
that  it  was  Friday  evening  that  this  occurred  ;  that  he 
did  not  hail  the  apparition  ;  that  it  did  not  come  within 
hail;  that  "he  shoulda't  have  a  know'd  what  to  say  to 
it,  ef  he'd  a  wan  ted  to." 


ilr     I 


l^ 


I:  ..I 


\'i\\ 


M 


'ii! 


H**B 


i:'  (U  iill 


''  II 


If  i 


11    ;   1- 


illti 


1«2 


THE  NEW   PRIEST. 


"  No  more  'ee  woultl'n ;  that's  a  sure  ca?<e,"  said  Isaac 
Maffon. 

"Any  evidence  as  to  the  cnHlihility  of  Mr.  IJarbury 
and  his  friend,  will  now  be  admissible,"  said  the  nia;;is- 
trate,  with  dignity  tempered  by  condescension. 

"  liaw !  II — "  burst  from  the  constable,  very  un- 
timely ;  a  laugh  cut  off  in  the  middle. 

Mr.  Wellon,  at  this  point  withdrew. 

"  Call  the  next  witness  !  "  said  the  magistrate,  waiving 
further  interruption. 

"  I  dono  how  to  call  un,  exactly ;  I  believe  his  name  is 
Nahthan ;  but  he's  got  an  *  L,'  stuck  before  it,  I  thinks, 
from  the  way  he  spoke  it." 

" L.  Natlian  Banks  !  L.  Nathan  Banks ! "  Gilpin 

called,  making  his  comment  also.  "  Well,  if  that  isn't  a 
way  of  writing  a  name !  I've  sid  L's  and  D's  stuck  at 
the  end,  but  sticking  'em  at  the  beginning  's  noos  to 
me." 

Our  readers  have  seen  the  world  some  days  farther  on 
than  Gilpin  had,  and  are  familiar  enough  with  a  fashion 
of  which  Mr.  Bangs,  whose  name  happened  to  be  El- 
nathan,  was  quite  innocent. 

Mr.  Bangs  did  not  appear.  "  I  thought  surely  he'd  turn 
up,  as  he  did  t'other  night,"  said  Gilpin.  "  I  didn't  tell 
un  he'd  be  summonsed ;  but  he's  got  a  sharp  nose.'* 

"  I  understood  that  Mr.  Wellon  could  testify,"  said  the 
stipendiary. 

"Ay;  but  without  Mr.  Banks  you  can't  weld  the 
evidence  together,  sir." 

"  You'd  best  summon  him ;  and  that  point  can  be  de- 
termined." 

"  'E  s  just  out  in  Tom  Fielden's  house,"  timidly  sug- 
gested Nathan,  or   Zebedee,  or  some  one  of  them,  not 


n    ■ 


IM: 


AN   ori'ICIAL  EXAmNATION. 


18a 


til  inking  his  voice  fit  to  intrude  in  so  awful  a  presence. 
"  'E  went  there,  however,  a  bit  sunce." 

"  Present  my  t'oin[)linK'nt.s  to  him  then,  plea-^o,  one  of 
you  ;  'conipllnients  of  liis  worship,  the  Stipendiary  Magis- 
trate, to  the  Reverend  Mr.  Wellon,'  and  ask  if  he'll 
please  to  step  here  for  a  few  njoments." 

The  "  one  "  who  undertook  this  errand  must  have  had 
an  unusual  number  of  feet,  or  of  shoes  upon  his  feet,  if 
one  judged  by  the  multitudinous  clatter  that  followed. 

The  clergyman  on  coming  in  again,  gave  his  short 
account  of  finding  the  little  cap  at  the  Worrell ;  and  that 
was  all.     The  stipendiary  spoke : — 

"The  evidence  just  received  may  go  towards  establish- 
ing the  nature  of  the  crime  by  which  Mr.  Barbury's 
daughter  has  been  assailed;  but,  in  my  judgment,  it  would 
be  insufficient  to  fix  the  guilt  with  unerring  certainty  upon 
any  individual.  —  I  shall  now  adjourn  the  court."  As 
for  bail,  he  would  say  fifty  pounds  each,  for  Mr. 
Ursfon  and  his  son  ;  and  would  consider  them  respon- 
sible for  the  appearance  of  Mrs.  Calloran.  "  The  day 
to  which  he  had  adjourned  the  court,"  he  said,  "  would 
be  appreciated  by  the  persons  chiefly  interested  ;  it 
was  the  fifth  from  that  of  the  Exaltation  of  the  Holy 
Cross,  and  following  that  of  St.  Lambert,  Bishop  and 
Martyr.  In  consideration  of  the  result  of  the  patient 
and  deliberate  investigation  which  lad  afforded  hira 
peculiar  gratification,  he  would  himself  be  responsible 
for  the  usual  costs." 

Mr.  Wellon  offered  himself  as  surety,  and  was  at 
once  accepted. 

Gilpin,  on  getting  into  the  open  air,  as  he  did  very 
speedily,  surrounded  by  the  open-mouthed  and  eager 
public,  did  not  prevent  himself  from  exclaiming,  (while 


IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


A 


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^p 


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I.I 


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^ 

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7 


Photographic 

Sciences 
Corporation 


23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  14580 

(716)  872-4S03 


V 


iV 


^ 


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184 


TH^  NEW  PRIEST. 


he  looked  flushed  and  chagrined,)  "  Well,  if  that  isn't 
law.  with  a  tail  to  un ! " 

An  irreverent  voice  from  among  the  public  (strongly 
resembling  Billy  Bow's)  asserted  that  "  The  King  (ef 
'twas  the  king  'isself  that  doned  it)  might  as  well  take  a 
sqjiid  or  a  tom-eod  for  a  magistrate,  as  some  'e'd  aniade," 
and  then  proposed  "  three  cheers  for  Mr.  Charles  Gulpin, 
Constable  of  his  majesty  in  this  harbor  and  the  neighbor- 
ing parts." 

The  cheers  were  begun  lustily,  though  at  Gilpin's  men- 
tion of  Skij)per  George's  loss,  they  broke  off,  and  just  as 
they  were  dying  away,  the  door  of  the  Magistrate's  house 
opened,  and  he  appeared,  looking  from  side  to  side,  and 
with  a  modesty  that  sate  gracefully  upon  dignity  and 
authority,  said  that  "  Words  would  fail  him  to  express  his 
sense  of  the  generous  confidence  of  the  people  of  New- 
foundland ;  that  he  was  glad  that  his  humble  efforts  had 
met  the  applause  of  his  fellow-subjects,  which  was  next 
to  the  award  of  an  approving  conscience.  He  looked 
with  confidence  to  the  approval  of  his  sovereign.  In 
conclusion,  he  begged  all  present  to  partake  of  a  little 
coffee,  which  he  had  given  orders  to  have  prepared." 

"  Three  cheers  for  'e's  woshup,  the  Sti-pendery  of 
Peterport "  ;  cried  the  voice  again,  "  and  may  the  King 
soon  be  so  well  plased  to  put  un  in  a  berth  better  fittun 
to  his  debilities ! "  Over  this  there  was  more  subdued 
laughter  than  shouting. 


1^^ 

ffibwihMi 

m  ■ 

WBB^^^ 

ilMi 

'M 

Meantime  the  sad  loss  was  just  the  same,  and  just  where 
it  was.  The  noble  old  father  whom  they  had  seen  bearing  it 
like  a  hero  a  few  hours  before,  had  carried  home  a  heavy 


AN   OFFICIAL   EXAMINATION. 


185 


load ;  tho  gentle  mother  was  heart-stricken ;  the  whole 
company  of  neighbors,  the  moment  they  got  away  from 
the  examination  into  the  open  air, — like  tho?*e  who  had 
not  been  at  the  Magistrate's, — bore  a  share  of  the  sor- 
row. 

Billy  Bow  and  otiiers  staid  to  share  Mr.  Naiighton's 
hospitality ;  but  Jesse  Hill  and  Isaac  MalFen  went 
silently  away  in  one  direction,  vSkipper  Charlie  moodily 
in  another,  and  many  more  dispersed. 

— "  I  wish  they'd  appoint  Parson  Wellon,  as  they  do 
at  home,"  said  Gilpin,  as  he  went  along  by  himself. 

"  And  I  hope  they'll  just  let  parsons  be  parsons,  and 
magistrates  magistrates,"  said  a  voice  behind. 

"  I  didn't  know  your  reverence  was  so  near ; "  said 
the  constable  ;  "  but  I  wish  *hey'd  do  something." 

Captain  Nolesworth,  having  had  no  opportunity  of  de- 
livering his  testimony,  went  back  to  Bay-IIarbor  with 
the  intention  of  making  his  affidavit  th(!re,  before  he 
sailed.  It  was  to  be  to  the  effect  that  he  saw  three  females 
in  the  punt  leaving  the  Worrell ;  that  one  of  them  was 
supported  as  if  sick,  and  that  there  seemed  to  be  a  fear 
or  strange  unwillingness  to  be  neared,  and  that  a  male 
voice,  (as  he  judged,  of  some  one  having  authority,) 
called  out  to  "  Keep  on  !  Keep  on  !  Don't  stop  !  " 

This  was  to  be  the  substance  of  the  captain's  evidence, 
as  he  detailed  it,  walking  up  the  harbor.  He  pronounced 
at  the  same  time  an  opinion  upon  the  magistrate,  some- 
what enigmatical,  as  follows : — 

"  Mr.  Naughton  '11  live  a  good  while,  sir,  I  think,  if  he 
doesn't  meet  with  an  accident ;  that  sort  most  generally 
does." 

The  reader  may  take  the  captain's  speculations  as  to 
the  stipendiary's  longevity,  at  what  he  pleases,  and  may 


1  i 


18G 


THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


estimate  the  captain's  evidence  as  he  tliinks  fit;  but  Capt. 
Nolesworth  himself  gave  his  opinion,  as  follows  : — 

"  Depend  upon  it,  sir,  if  that  punt  is  followed  up,  you'll 
follow  her  up.  I  wish  I  could  stay  to  see  it  out ;  but  I 
expect  to  be  off  to-morrow.  If  I'd  known  enough  tother 
night,  I'd  have  known  more  of  that  punt,  one  way  or  an- 
other." 

"  It  won't  stop  where  it  is,"  the  clergyman  said ;  "  the 
authorities  will  take  it  up." 

"  It  wont  be  amiss  to  lend  a  hand  and  help  along 
justice,  I  think,  at  any  rate,"  said  the  captain. 

The  Parson  turned  aside  and  went  in  at  Mrs.  Barrels 
house. 


i'l! 


AN  OLD  SMUGGLER. 


187 


CHAPTER  XXI. 


AN   OLD    SMUGGLER. 


T  v/as  not  long  after  the  magistratual  examination 
was  completed,  before  the  ccastable  made  his  ap- 
pearance at  Mr.  Wellon's  door,  followed  by  Jesse 
and  a  company. 

"  Please,  Mr.  Wellon,"  said  he,  "  here's  a  bit  o'  some- 
thing Jesse's  brought ;  Skipper  George  found  un  in  the 
path  by  his  house,  this  mornin'.  Tluit's  what  made  un 
take  it  so  hard  not  findin'  he/  at  Mr.  Urston's  to-day, 
I'll  go  bail." 

"  'E  was  lyun  jes  this  w'y,  sir,"  said  Jesse ;  ("  so 
Uncle  George  told  I,)  wi'  'e's  broadside  to,  an'  a  string 
fast  to  un,  'e  said,  othervv'ys  Uncle  George  wouldn'  ha' 
tookt  notus  to  un,  'e  said,  (didn'  um  Izik  ?)  an'  the  string 
cotch  'e's  foot,  sir." 

The  thing  was  a  chip,  smoothed  on  all  sides,  and  bear- 
ing an  inscription,  rude  and  illegible  enough,  but  which 
Jesse  repeated  very  glibly  in  his  own  English. 
"YER  MEAD  IS  SAFE  ANF." 
It  was  determined  that  the  bit  of  wood  was  an  oar- 
blade,  and  that  the  meaning  was, 

"  Tour  maid  is  safe  enough.*^ 
Gilpin  dismissed  the  fishermen  and  went,  as  he  had 
been  desired,  into  Mr.  Wellon's  study. 


m 

\m 

fJIJ; 

, 

1 

'.!  ,1H 


^  ,r: 


I,  fit: 


r 

1, 

I't: 

I'l."  , 

^^^^^^^ 

mm 

188 


THE  NKW   PUIKST. 


The  writinj;  upon  the  chip  was  not  the  only  literary 
effort  to  be  senitinizetl.  There  had  been  left  at  the 
Parson's  door,  during  the  night,  a  bit  of  paper  on  which 
(thi:  handwriting  being  better  than  the  spelling  or  syntax) 
was  written  as  follows  : — 

"  Thers  som  prodstins  bisen  about  sarchen  that's  not  to 
Gud  is  niver  thafe  ar  sniuglar  Pimunx  thim  id  lik  to  no 
Ef  al  tels  bes  thru — plen  Spakun." 

Gilpin  made  his  way  through  this  much  more  readily 
than  Mr.  AVellon  had  done,  smiling  at  the  word  "Emunx" 
which  he  said  "  was  one  way  o'  spellin*  it ! " 

What  the  writer  meant  to  have  written,  it  was  con- 
cluded, was, — 

"  There's  some  Protestants  busying  about  searching^ 
that's  not  too  good.  Is  (there)  never  (a)  thief  or  smug- 
gler amongst  them.,  Id  like  to  know, — if  all  tales  bes  true  f 
— Plain  Speaking." 

Gilpin  said,  "  It  was  easy  enough  to  see  what  that 
meant ;  it  meant  Ladford,  who  fished  with  Skipper 
George,  and  who  was  said  to  have  been  a  wild  and  des- 
perate fellow  years  ago,  and  to  have  a  price  on  his  head. 
He  had  been  very  active  in  the  search ;  a  quiet  man  that 
kept  back,  as  Mr.  Wellon  no  doubt  had  noticed,  on  Saturday. 
But  if  ever  a  man  had  repented  in  this  world,  Ladford 
had  repented,  Gilpin  believed,  and  he  had  been  a  great 
many  years  in  the  country.  Withal  he  was  the  very 
handiest  man  in  the  Bay;  could  work  a  frigate,  Gilpin 
believed,  single-handed,  and  twirl  her  round  in  her  own 
length. 

"  As  for  Skipper  George's  daughter,  everybody  knew 
that  Ladford  considered  her  as  an  angel,  or  something 
more  than  earthly ;  and  it  was  no  more  to  be  thought  that 
he'd  harm  her,  than  that  her  own  father  would.     There 


AN  OLD  SMUGGLER. 


180 


n 


great 


was  something  between  Ladford  and  Skipper  George; 
but  wlicthcr  there  was  a  relationship,  or  what,  nobody 
knew." 

Tliis  was  Gilpin's  story ;  and  with  what  Mr.  Wellon 
had  heard  before,  determined  him  to  find  out  Ladford  and 
talk  with  him;  to  give  the  letter  to  the  magistrate  just 
then,  was  not  thought  likely  to  further  the  ends  of  justice; 
nor  was  it  thought  advisable  to  mention  it. 

Captain  Nolesworth's  o[)inion,  about  the  punt,  seemed 
well  worth  attending  to;  and  it  was  determined,  if  possible, 
to  follow  it  up.  Messrs.  Worner  &  Co.'s  head  clerk  had 
expressed  a  willingness,  on  behalf  of  the  house,  to  put 
down  their  names  for  fifty  pounds  towards  one  hundred,  to 
be  offered  as  reward  for  finding  the  lost  maiden, — or  one 
half  of  fifty  pounds  for  finding  her  body  ;  and  it  was 
understood  that  the  other  merchants  of  the  place  (includ- 
ing Mr.  O'Rourke,)  would  make  up  the  full  sum.  Un- 
doubtedly Government  would  take  it  up,  if  the  local 
magistrates  could  not  do  any  thing  ;  and  whatever  facts,  if 
any,  should  come  out,  implicating  any  persons  in  the  guilt 
of  abduction,  could  be  laid  before  the  Grand  Jury. 

Ladiord's  house,  on  the  southern  side  of  Indian  Point, 
was  the  worst  there, — and  scarcely  a  house.  He  was 
near, — a  man  of  middle  size,  or  more,  and  upright, 
except  his  head.  lie  had  a  high,  smooth  forehead ; 
deep-set  eyes,  looking  as  if  their  fires  were  raked  up  ; 
slender  nose,  and  thin  cheeks  and  lips ; — the  whole  face 
tanned  by  life-long  exposure  to  the  weather. 

Beside  a  battered  "  sou'-wester,"  thrown  backward,  his 
dress  was  made  up  of  a  shirt  of  bread-bag-stuff,  sewed 
with  round  twine,  in  even  sailmaker's  stHches,  and  clean ; 
and  of  trowsers  cut  out  of  tanned  sails,  and  sewed  as 
neatly  as  the  shirt.     His  feet  were  bare. 


'< 


if 


190 


THK  NKVV    IMIIKST. 


w 


"  I've  come  upon  some  private  business  with  you,"  said 
the  derjrymau  ; — Ladford  started.  His  visitor,  noticing 
it,  said:  "but  Vm  not  an  olficer;  you  needn't  be  afraid 
of  me." 

"  I  oughtn't,  sir,  surely,  of  a  man  of  God,"  said  Ladford. 

"No;  and  needn't.  You  see  I  know  somethinjr  of 
your  case ;  and  we  should  have  known  each  other,  if  I 
could  have  found  you  before  ;  for  I've  been  here  two  or 
three  times." 

As  he  mentioned  his  fruitless  visits,  a  startling — most 
repulsive — leer  just  showed  itself  in  Ladford's  face ;  but 
it  disappeared,  as  suddenly  and  wholly,  as  a  monster  that 
has  come  up,  horrid  and  hideous,  to  the  surface  of  the 
sea,  and  then  has  sunk  again,  bodily,  into  the  dark  Deep; 
and  is  gone,  as  if  it  had  never  come,  except  for  the  fear 
and  loatiiing  that  it  leaves  behind. — This  face,  after  that 
look,  had  nothing  repulsive  in  it,  but  was  only  the  more 
subdued  and  sad. 

There  was  a  short  silence  ;  and  then  Ladford  spoke  : — 

"  Some  men,"  said  he,  "  mus'n't  keep  upon  their  form  ; 
for  it  won't  do  for  them  to  be  found  by  every  one ;  but 
I'm  sorry  you  came  for  nothing,  sir ;  I'd  have  been  here 
if  I'd  known  you  meant  it." 

Tiie  Parson  took  the  anonymous  letter  from  his  pocket, 
and  read  it. 

"  There ! "  said  he,  "  that's  what  I  came  about ;  but 
I  come  on  God's  behalf,  you  know,  and  therefore  as  a 
friend." 

"  I  believe  it,  sir,"  said  Ladford,  who  had  been  looking 
in  his  face,  and  now  bowed.  "  I  don't  blame  any  man 
for  thinking  ill  of  me,  or  speaking  ill  of  me  ;— I'm  a  poor 
fellow; — but  this  does  ma  wrong.  Why,  sir!  it  may 
sound  straiifre,  but  I'd  give  my  life  to  find  that  girl ! 
Poor  Susan ! " 


AN  OLD  SMUGGLER. 


191 


u,"  siiiil 
noticing 
e  airaid 


jadford. 
hing  of 
ler,  if  I 
!  two  or 


T — most 
,ce;  but 
ter  that 
3  of  the 
a  Deep ; 
the  fear 
fter  that 
he  more 

poke : — 
ir  form ; 
>ne;  but 
en  here 

pocket, 

)ut ;  but 
re  as  a 

looking 
my  man 
a  a  poor 

it  may 
at  girl ! 


"  Lucy  ?  "  paid  his   visitor,  scarcely   aloud. 

"  No,  sir  ;  it's  another  makes  me  .«orry,  —  one  that's 
dead.  Ah,  sir !  I  was  brou;;lit  up  to  wickednes.s,  for  a  trade  ! 
«.  I  v-breakiiig,  Sabbath-breaking,  oath-brejikiii^;,  heart- 
'  raking,  swearing,  drinking,  fighting, — thirty-six  years  I 
was  among  all  that,  iiuO  more;  shamed  by  it,  and  hating 
it,  till  I  got  away  from  it. — Then,  after  all,  to  feel  a  devil 
inside  of  you,  that  you've  got  in  a  chain;  and  to  feel  him 
climb  up  against  the  sides  of  you,  in  here,  before  you 
know,  and  glare,  with  his  devilish  look,  out  of  your  eyes, 
and  put  liis  dirty  |)aw  and  pull  up  the  corners  of  your 
mouth,  and  play  with  the  tackle  in  your  throat,  and  r'ake 
the  words  come  out  as  you  didn't  mean,  and  then  to  feel 
that  tliis  fellow's  growth  is  out  of  your  own  life  ! " 

INIr.  "Wellon,  as  he  looked  at  the  man,  during  this 
speech,  could  see,  in  a  sort  of  fearful  pantomime,  the 
struggle!  started  and  stifled  between  the  poor  fellow  and 
his  devilish  beastly  familiar. 

"  But  you  do  get  him  down.  Christ  will  trample  him 
under  foot.  The  more  you  need  it,  the  more  help  you 
get ;  '  He  giveth  more  grace,'  "  said  the  Minister  of  God, 
pouring  out  encouragement  to  him. 

"  I  haven't  been  a  man,"  said  the  poor  fellow,  showing, 
by  the  very  words,  that  he  had  never  lost  his  manhood ; 
"  I  never  was  a  son,  nor  a  brother,  nor  a  friend ." 

"  Were  you  ever  married .''  "  his  visitor  asked. 

"  No  sir  ;  never.  I  ought  to  have  been,  and  meant  to 
have  been ;  but  I  wasn't. — There's  one  that  knows  that 
story,  if  he  choose  to  tell  it ; "  and  saying  this,  Ladford 
looked  at  the  Parson  humbly,  as  if  waiting  for  further 
question,  and  then  proceeded  :  "  It's  just  about  that  part 
of  my  life  I'll  tell, — if  you'll  please  to  hear ;  'twas  the 


i  li'^ 


f»  ii'i 


m 


11)2 


THK  NKW   rUIKST. 


happiest  and  'hvas  the  most  terrible  sad,  and  mournfid  in 
it  all.  And  it'll  come  in  very  well  just  now.  Per- 
haps, you'll  know  me  the  better  when  you've  heard  it.  I 
tried  to  (h)  my  duty  lik<;  a  man,  to  one  thin;;,  and  tixTe'n 
all  that's  left  of  it,"  taking  the  black  ribbon  out  of  a 
IJil,!,., u  it'^  .^11  njrl,f,_it's  all  right!  " 

Many  w«'ll-bred  people  would  have  been  content  with 
seeing  this  poor  man's  relic,  and  would  have  kept  their 
touch  and  smell  far  olf  from  it ;  but  Mr.  Wellon,  with  the 
senses  of  a  gentleman,  had  a  man's  heart,  and  wjis  a  min- 
ister of  Christ.  He  saw  that  the  owner  wished  to  lay  it 
in  his  hand,  and  he  held  out  his  hand  for  it  and  took  it. 

*'  That  riband,"  the  story  went  on,  "  used  to  b<;  about  a 

little  boy's  neck;  a  pretty  little  fellcw  : like  this  Lucy ; 

very  like ! — It  isn't  likely  that  lie'd  have  been  a  wonder- 
ful scholar,  like  her,  but  oh !  as  pretty  a  little  fellow  as 
ever  God  made  to  grow  in  the  world.  lie  was  so 
straight ! — and  he  stood  right  up  and  looked  in  your  face ; 
as  nuich  Jis  to  say,  '  Do  you  know  God  ?  Well,  I  belong 
to  Him.'  There  ! There !  " — said  poor  Ladford,  over- 
come with  what  he  had  been  saying  and  thinking,  and 
falling  down  on  himself, — his  breast  on  his  Bible  and  his 
head  between  his  knees — and  giving  two  heaves  of  his 
body,  forward  and  back.  lie  then  raised  himself  up 
again  ;  find,  as  his  hearer,  of  course,  said  nothing,  he 
began  again,  when  he  was  ready :  "  His  hair  was  as 
thick  and  solid,  as  if't  was  cut  out  of  stone  ;  and  his  lip  had 
sucli  a  curl  to  it,  just  like  the  crest  to  a  wave  ; — you 
know  Lucy's, — it  was  much  the  same.  I  can't  tell  you  his 
eyes.  You  could  look  into  'em,  and  wouldn't  think  there 
was  any  bottom  to  'em.     It  seemed  as  if  you  could  look 

miles  into  'em. Oh  !  that  boy  !  "  he  exclaimed,  in  such 

an  intense  sort  of  way  as  might  have  fixed  one  of  the 


AN   OLD    SMIJ(JGLKR. 


\\K\ 


up 
he 


treu!4  into  listciiing,  and  then  suddenly  appealed  to  Lid 
visitor : — 

"  You're  not  tired  of  liearing,  Mr.  Weiion  ?  " 


«  No,  no." 
"Oil!   tiiut 


!     lie's   ffone ! 


1»» 


and   'twas   this 


hand  I  this  very  hand  — 

The  voice  was  one  of  sorrow  and  not  of  remorse  ;  hut, 
hi-ving  in  mind  the  wild  life  that  this  man  had  led,  and, 
perhaps,  having  his  heart  full  of  the  child  tiiat  had  seemed, 
a  moment  before,  to  be  playing  close  by  them,  Mr.  Wellon 
cried  out — 

"  Why,  what  did  you  do  to  him  ?  '* 

"  Oh  !  no !  not  so  l)a<l  as  that. — Not  worse  than  I  am, 
though,"  said  Ladford,  the  indignant  voice  changing  to 
self-reproach ;  "  but  I  couldn't  have  hurt  him,  unless  I 
Wits  drunk,  and  I  never  was  drunk  in  my  life." 

"  Whose  child  was  it?  "  asked  the  clergyman. 

The  smuggler  looked  at  him,  with  a  s*art,  and  an- 
swered instantly, — 

«  He  was  God's  child  !  " 

Having  waited  for  any  further  question,  and  none  being 
asked,  he  again  went  on  where  he  had  left  off: — 

"  I  took  him  to  the  church  myself,  on  this  arm,  and 
two  real  good  Christians  were  godfather  and  godmother, 
for  the  poor  mother's  sake.  I  was  over  in  the  far  corner ; 
she  wasn't  there.  I  didn't  carry  him  back  from  church. 
I  wouldn't  have  opened  my  arms  to  take  him  in  any  more 
than  if  he'd  been  the  Lord  Jesus  Christ,  in  a  manner. 
They  did  love  him  dearly — poor  motherl  ss,  fatherless 
darling ! " 

"  Why,  what  became  of  the  mother  ?  " 

"  Oh !  she  died.  Naturally,  she  died"  answered  the 
smuggler,  shaking  his  head  and  looking  down.    "  I  can't 

I'd 


104 


THE  NliVV   rUIKST. 


lalk  about  lier,  sir — but  tbo  boy  growcd  ;  and  tho  sea,  that 
b.'ul  had  so  much  wIckiMhioss  doiio  on  it,  got  that  boy." 

"  I  ihonglit  h(!  never  came  near  it,"  said  tho  Parson, 
much  as  if  iu;  tiiought  that  ho  could  save  it  all  y(!t,  and 
keep  (he  pretty  boy,  by  thrusting  in  an  impossibility  made 
of  words. 

Poor  l^adford  looked  mournfully  at  him,  and  wistfully, 
almost  as  if  he,  too,  half  hoped  that  it  might  not  all  be  as 
it  was,  and  then,  glancing  at  the  black  ribbon,  continued 
liis  story : — 

"  lie  never  did,  sir ;  but  it  got  him,  just  as  much  as  if 
it  had  a  great  rope  of  seaweed  fast  to  him  and  dragged 
him  in.  One  day  when  I  was  going  down  the  cliff',  think- 
ing of  nothing,  what  should  be  there,  like  a  beautiful  bird 
or  a  l)utt(!rtly  on  the  path,  but  that  handsome,  handsome 
boy  !  I  was  confused  and  mazed  like,  I  suppose.  It 
was  so  strange  to  see  him  there  ;  I  don't  know  if  he'd 
ever  been  (old  not  to  come  to  the  sea  ;  but  he'd  been  kept 
about  home  ;  and  when  I  saw  him,  if  I'd  only  once  had 
the  thought  to  si)eak  to  him ; — but  I  hadn't.  I  was  fright- 
ened, I  suppose,  and  I  put  out  my  hand  to  save  him — just 
this  way — and  that's  all.  That  was  the  last  ever  was 
known  of  that  beautiful  child,  alive.  There's  my  mark," 
said  Ladford,  showing  the  lower  half  of  his  left  arm  with 
a  knob  on  it,  where  it  might  have  been  broken. 

"  Ah  !  that's  a  bad  break.  That  was  broken  in  more 
than  one  place,  or  it  hadn't  good  surgery,"  said  Mr. 
Wellon. 

"  You  know  about  surgery,  sir  ?  "  said  the  smuggler. 
"  It  ivas  broken  more  than  once  ;  but  I  think  the  surgeon 
did  his  best.     I  went  over  (he  cliff,  too." 

"  And  the  child  was  lost  and  you  saved,  though  all  the 
probability  was  the  other  way." 


AN   OLD   SMUCiOLKR. 


19.") 


"  Yes,  indeed.  They  say  I  j^uve  a  great  spring,  like  a 
niadtnaii,  and  cleared  every  lliin;^,  (except  what  did  this, 
and  iiohody  could  tell  what  that  was,)  and  he!  ho  went 
ri;;ht  down  to  his  d«'alli.  There  was  a  rose-hush  all 
there,  where  they  hiiried  hiin,  and  his  spirit  and  lite  and 
all  his  dear,  hles.m.'d  heaiity  was  gon<.'  away  out  of  the 
world  ;  and  whether  it  took  something  out  of  my  eyes  I 
don't  know;  hut  there  isn't  such  a  brightn(!ss  on  tho 
leaves,  or  grass,  or  any  where.  I  saved  that  hit  of  rib- 
and ;  it  went  down  with  me  and  came  np  with  me. — 
Now,  sir,"  said  Ladford,  suddenly  gathering  himself  up, 
"  I  want  to  get  this  girl  of  George  l{arl)ury's.  It's  a  good 
thing  that  it  wasn't  me  that  w<;nt  down  ;  ay,  it's  a  merci- 
ful thing,  that  it  wasn't  mo  taken  away  without  e'er  a 
hand  or  a  word  raised  uj) ! — I5ut,  Parson  Wellon,  if 
tl)(!re's  a  way  on  earth,  we  must  find  George  Harhury's 
daughter.  God  ordy  knows  what  I'd  give  to  he  the  one 
to  find  her ! — I  owe  George  liarbury  life'a  blood,  and 
more  ! — Only  one  thing  beside,  1  care  ll)r." 

The  listener  waited,  but  L.adford  added  nothing. 

"  Then  that  l)roug]it  you  up  ?  " 

"  I  iDcis  brought  up  at  last,  but  it  was  years  first.  I 
stopped  many  a  bad  thing  being  done  by  shipmates  or 
landsmen  af't(!r  that,  and  at  last  I  knocked  right  off.  I 
had  a  house  and  a  garden  and  a  fishing  boat,  and  I  meant 
to  sell  tlie  whole  of  'em,  and  give  away  the  money  to 
something  good  ;  but  they  got  out  a  warrant  against  me, 
long  after  I'd  given  up,  and  just  when  I  was  going  to  try 
to  do  some  good  after  all  my  bad,  and  so  I  got  away,  and 
came  off;  and  the  neighbors  know  what  I've  been  since 
I've  been  in  this  country." 

"  You  haven't  given  over  honest  labor,  I  hope,  now 
that  you  are  repenting  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Wellon,  his  question 


fit 


'  i;  •«JiE;'JiiJit' 


4 


i    .J  J 


ml 


wXm 


196 


THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


being  one  that  might  be  suggested  veiy  naturally,  by  the 
appearance  of  the  former  smuggler's  house  and  dress. 

"  No,  sir ;  I  do  a  man's  work,"  answered  the  smuggler ; 
"  perhaps  more." 

"  But  you  don't  drink  " — 

"  And  yet  I  live  in  that  wretched  place,  and  dress  like 
a  convict,  you  might  say,"  answered  Ladford  with  a  quiet, 
sad  smile,  drawing  tiie  contrast  in  words,  that  his  visit- 
or had,  most  likely,  in  his  thought. 

"  For  a  man's  woi'k  you  can  get  a  man's  wages,  can't 
you?" 

"  That  wouldn't  follow  in  my  case,"  said  the  poor  exile ; 
"but  I  do." 

JMr.  Wellon  understood  ihe  sentence  and  replied — 
"  But  certainly,  any  body  that  employed  you  would  pay 
you  ?  " 

"  Not  so  surely ;  but  I'm  laying  up  wages  in  one  place, 
I  hope.  I  live,  and  all  I  can  do  in  a  day's  work,  is  for 
others,  and  I  hope  I'm  laying  something  by." 

Just  as  Mr.  Wellon  was  leaving  him,  a  voice  was 
heard  from  above,  in  the  little  woods,  and  Ladford  an- 
swered— 

"  'Is.  I'se  a  comin'.  I'll  be  with  'ee  in  short,  and 
bear  a  hand  about  that  chumley."  And  so  entirely  had 
he  taken  the  words  and  way  of  the  country,  that  he 
seemed  almost  another  man. 

Ilis  story  iiad  not  been  a  very  comj)lete  one  ;  but 
there  seemed  to  be  a  tie  that  bound  Ladford  to  Lucy's 
father,  or  herself,  through  that  boy  and  the  boy'a  mother. 


TWO   WHO  HAVE   MET   liEFORE. 


197 


.1 


i 


CHAPTER  XXII. 


AN   INTERVIEW   OF  TWO   WHO   HAVE   MET   BEFORE. 


N  the  whirl  of  happenings  and  doings  wo  must  not 
too  long  forget  some  of  our  chief  characters.  Fan- 
ny Dare,  who  saw  most  of  Mrs.  Barre, — indeed 
any  one  who  knew  her,  could  not  but  see  the  change 
which  a  little  while  had  made  in  her ;  for  she  was 
changed.  There  were  tears  oftener  in  her  eyes  now 
than  before ;  and  they  were  formerly  not  seldom  there. 
Her  cheek  was  something  thinner  and  more  pale  ;  there 
was  a  fixed  and  intent  look  in  her  eye  when  she  was 
listening  to  another,  or  was  in  thought ;  and  whe»  siie 
spoke, — if  her  thoughts  were  not  apparently  abstracted, — 
her  words  came  so  few  and  strong,  that  it  seemed  as  if 
all  she  did  were  done  with  a  great  might.  Yet  she  was 
gentle  and  tender. 

There  was  a  wakefulness  about  her,  as  if  she  were  ever 
fearing  or  expecting  something ;  and  she  had  that  expres- 
sion, which,  to  the  best  hearts,  is  most  touching  in  the 
human  face  ;  not  of  asking  pity,  but  of  needing  it.  Her 
eye  grew  fuller,  as  her  cheek  became  more  thin  and  pale. 

It  is  very  touching  to  see  one  to  whom  life  is  so  earntsst 
and  serious  a  thing,  as  it  evidently  was  to  Mrs.  Barre ; 
(there  was  no  trifling,  or  play,  or  idleness  with  her  ;)  and 
it  was  quite  as  touching  to  see  how  unforgettingly  she 
kept  her  burden  from  bearing  on  the  young  life  of  little 
Mary. 


1 


i 


n 

a' 


■Ir 


'■  '  '■ ' 

■ '    . '  •,  ■ 

MO 

v. 


h 

J;  , 

i'i?ij 

■f 

b£  i^' 

lln  ' 

■1 

illl 

fc«-^.  iiK. 

108 


THE   NEW  PRIEST. 


It  was  on  Monday  evening  that  slie  sat  in  her  chamber, 
wlios(>  window  looked  to  tlic  west,  and  gazed  upward  into 
tlie  sky.  Her  sniootli  forehead,  whose  clear  brows  were 
bared  by  the  falling-back  of  her  dark  hair,  and  her  large 
eyes  fixed,  made  her  a  fit  figure  for  the  silent  time. 

JNIiss  Dare  sat  near  her. 

Before  them  both  hung  one  bright  star,  in  air ;  and  on 
the  earth  was  the  still  land  and  water ;  and  far  off,  the 
inland  hills,  which,  at  this  distance,  and  in  this  waning 
light,  and  standing  in  a  land  as  unknown  as  if  it  were  yet 
undiscovered,  look  like  a  rim  of  some  happy,  hidden  val- 
ley. 

Mrs.  Barre  had  never  opened  her  mystery,  further,  to 
her  friend  ;  nor  of  course,  had  Fanny  sought  to  look  into 
it ;  only,  that  there  was  something,  was  understood  be- 
tween them. 

JMrs.  Barre  broke  the  thoughtful  silence,  saying, 
"  Sometimes  what  I  am  striving  and  hoping  for  seems 
as  hopeless  and  unattainable  as  the  star  tl>at  the  child 
reaches  after."  (Such  was  the  bright  star  shining  down 
to  them,  mildly  as  it  had  shone  so  many — countless 
many — nights  since  first  this  world  knew  darkness.) 
"And  yet,"  she  added,  "auguries  are  nothing.  The  faith 
of  our  best  wisdom,  and  clearest  conscience,  and  simplest 
trust,  is  right  !  " 

So  she  spoke,  in  faith  ;  and  so  God  heard,  who  orders 
all  things.  There  are,  to  us,  no  gates, — the  "  gemina) 
somni  porhe," — through  one  of  which  fleet  disregarded 
hopes  and  prayers  unheeded  ;  while,  through  the  other, 
go  glad  prayers  accepted  and  bright  hopes  to  their  fulfil- 
ment ;  and  yet  in  our  day,  as  of  old,  one  strong  wish  forces 
its  way  through  rugged,  rocky  soil,  grows  u|)  from  sturdy 
root,  and  comes  to  ripeness  ;  another  falls  and  leaves  not 


TWO   WHO   HAVE  MET   BEFORE. 


190 


a  wreck  of  froth  upon  the  ground,  where  stood  a  perfect 
globe  of  loveliest  hues. 

While  she  was  speaking,  a  man  came  across  the  little 
open  green  towards  the  house.  He  was  of  an  unfamiliar 
look  and  unlike  the  harbor-planters,  but  he  came  straight 
forward,  turning  neither  to  the  right  nor  left,  and  not 
hesitating,  up  to  the  gate  and  through  the  gate,  to  the 
door,  and  there  he  had  a  message  for  the  lady  of  tlie 
house  ;  for  Mrs.  Br.iy,  as  he  called  her. 

Mrs.  Barre  was  much  agitated,  and  pressed  Fanny's 
hand,  as  she  rose  to  go  down  to  him,  and  leaned  against 
the  stairs  in  th(»  hall,  as  she  stood  to  hear  his  message. 

The  man  was  an  uncourtly  messenger.  "  A  Catholic 
clergyman,"  he  said,  ''desired  his  compliments,  and  would 
like  to  meet  JMrs.  Bray  at  Mr.  Ilenran's,  at  any  time  she 
might  ])lease  to  set." 

The  lady's  voice  testified  to  her  ngitation,  as  she  an- 
swered,  '*  I  shall  be  happy  to  meet  such  a  person  as  you 
speak  of;  but,  of  course,  I  cannot  make  a[)pointments  out 
of  my  own  house." 

"  It's  a  Catholic  praste,"  said  the  messenger,  almost 
gruflly. 

"  Who  is  he  ?  "  she  asked. 

''  That  I  don't  know  any  thing  about,  ma'am ;  I  was  to 
say  '  a  clergyman.'  " 

"  And  what  is  \o\u'  own  name  ?  " 

"  Froyne  is  my  name." 

"  Yes  ;  then  have  the  kindness  to  say  that  T  am  at 
home  now,  and  expect  to  be  at  home  to-morrow,  till  three 
o'clock." 

The  man  turned  on  his  heel,  and  with  an  ungracious 
or  awkward  ceremony  departed. 

Mrs.  Barre,  after  standing  a  few  moments  where  she 


200 


THE  NEW   PlIIEST. 


:;  :l:\. 


i.ii: 


3i''; 


was,  went  up  stairs  to  her  seat  opposite  the  bright  star, 
taking  Fanny's  hand  and  holding  it.  Presently  she  spoke 
of  the  appointment  she  had  just  made,  and  lioped  that 
Fanny  Dare  might  be  in  the  house  when  the  meeting 
took  place.  They  both  started,  as  again  a  man's  dark 
figure  came  upon  the  green ;  Mrs.  Barre,  clasping  her 
hands,  turned  away  to  the  wall. 

A  knock  was  heard  ;  not  long  nor  loud,  but  even,  reg- 
ular, decided;  the  work  of  a  hand  whose  weight  was 
exactly  known. 

"  I  didn't  expect  him  to  be  on  us  so  soon,"  said  Fanny 
Dare ;  "  what  shall  I  do  ?  " 

"  Just  stay  here,  if  you'll  be  so  jrood.  Don't  go  further 
off;  there's  a  good  girl,"  said  Mrs.  Barre. 

"  But  it's  almost  the  same  thing  as  being  in  the  same 
room,"  said  Fanny,  in  a  whisper. 

Mrs.  Barre  was  too  occupied  to  answer,  and  the  servant 
announced  a  gentleman  to  see  her,  waiting  in  the  parlor 
Lelow. 

Mrs.  Barre  came  to  the  door  of  the  room,  pale,  and 
earnest,  and  straightforward,  as  she  always  was  in  all 
things ;  but  as  she  paused  upon  the  outside,  so  on 
first  entering  the  room,  the  door  of  which  she  did  not 
shut  entirely,  she  paused,  with  her  sight  fixed  upon  the 
floor. 

When  she  raised  her  eyes,  she  found  the  gentleman 
standing  respectfully ;  it  was  Father  Nicholas.  In  the 
light  of  the  candle,  which  marked  distinctly  the  well-cut 
outlines  of  his  features,  and  threw  the  deep  lines  and 
hollows  into  shadow,  he  looked  more  handsome  and 
thoughtful  than  even  by  day.  His  simple  black  dress 
was  just  as  fit,  and  seemed  as  much  to  belong  to  him  as 
his  smooth,  shining  cassock  or  soutane. 


TWO  WHO  HAVE  MET  BEFORE. 


201 


Mrs.  Banc  startf^d,  but  said,  instantly,  "  You  are  no 
guest  in  my  liouso,  Mr.  Crarni)ton." 

He  fitood  meekly  and  unobtrusively,  looking  on  the 
lloor. 

"  1  hope,"  said  he,  "  that  any  harsh  feelings  or  injuri- 
ous suspicions,  formed  in  other  days " 

**  I  know  you,  Mr.  Crampton  !  "  she  said,  holding  the 
door  wide  open.  "  You  have  no  claim  on  my  forbear- 
ance, and  less  than  a  right  to  expect  me  to  talk  with  you. 
We  shall  have  no  further  communication  together." 

He  bowed  formally ;  but  there  was  an  intensity  in  his 
look  which  showed  what  was  roused  within  him.  His 
face  was  livid  and  his  forehead  moist.  He  passed  out, 
vvilh  another  slow  inclination  of  his  body,  saying, — 

"Not  now,  but  xary  likely  hereafter.  I  think  you  will 
not  forget — I  came  with  little  hope  of  saving  you,  but 
to  clear  my  own  soul." 


"  I  couldn't  help  hearing,"  said  Fanny  Dare.  "  I 
wish  I  had  been  deaf;  I  can  be  dumb." 

They  sat  long  silent,  and  she  held  Mrs.  Barre's  hand. 
Mrs.  Barre  sat  long  after  Fanny  had  gone  home. 


202 


TUE  NEW  riUESl. 


I  Hi 


'   If 


m^^ 


Rf   U'i 


'j;^' 


;     i: 


CHAPTER  XXm. 

FATHER    DEBRKE    AT    BAY-HARBOR. 

AY-HARBOR  is  a  town  of  some  importance  in 
Conception  Bay,  and  a  good  deal  of  trade  and 
business.  It  is  also  the  chief  town  of  a  distrct, 
as  respects  the  Roman  Catholic  Church ;  and  the  chief 
clergyman  of  that  denomination  officiating  in  Bay-Harbor 
is  superior  in  rank  and  title  to  the  others  in  that  district. 

At  this  time  the  Romish  clergy  there  were  the  Very 
Reverend  Father  O'Toole,  the  Reverend  Father  Dunne, 
(absent  for  some  months,)  and  the  Father  Nicholas,  whom 
the  reader  has  already  met. 

The  elder  priest  had  been  for  a  good  miny  years  at 
Bay-Harbor,  and  was  generally  liked  and  thought  of,  as 
kindly  and  warm-hearted  men  are  apt  to  be.  He  held 
the  reins  of  discipline  gently  ;  had  been,  until  quite  lately, 
a  frequent  visitor  in  families  of  other  faiths,  and  had 
given  his  horse  to  the  English  clergyman. 

The  nature  of  Father  Nicholas's  position  there,  or  con- 
nection with  the  mission,  was  not  very  evident.  By  short 
and  frequent  steps  he  had  made  his  way  into  the  very 
midst  of  every  thing;  had  got  Father  O'Toole's  right 
hand,  as  it  were,  in  his ;  while  the  latter  had,  for  the  last 
few  months,  (since  the  withdrawal  of  the  priest  who  had 
been  associated  Avith  himself  for  years,  and  who  was  ex- 


r  I 


THE  NEW  PRIEST  AT  BAY-HARBOR. 


203 


pected  again,)  submitted  so  quietly  to  the  absorption  of 
much  of  his  own  work  and  authority,  that  it  might  have 
been  tliought  to  be  an  arrangement  that  he  hked.  Many 
people  thought  the  new  comer  to  have  been  sent  out 
specially  by  the  Holy  Father  himself,  and  it  was  reported 
that  he  kept  a  record  of  every  thing  done  and  said  in  the 
important  town  of  Bay- Harbor,  ([)eople  think  their  own 
town  a  place  of  great  con.-^ecpience  in  the  world ;)  and 
tluit  the  Court  of  Rome  was  kept  regularly  informed  of 
every  thing  that  transpired,  and  a  good  deal  more.  It 
was  agreed  that  his  father  had  been  once  a  merchant  in 
Jamaica ;  afterwards  in  Cadiz ;  and  that  Father  Nicholas 
had  been  brought  up  in  Spain. 

Some  sharp  people  said  of  him  that  it  was  not  likely 
that  a  man  of  his  talents  would  be  kept  in  the  sort  of 
obscurity  that  even  Bay-Harbor  must  be  considered  as 
im})0.sing,  unless  for  good  reason :  and  that  it  was  prob- 
ably a  kind  of  banishment,  inflicted  or  allowed  by  his 
su[)eriors  ;  but  others  as  sharp  maintained,  in  opposi- 
tion, that  Father  Nicholas  was  intrusted  with  every 
priestly  function  and  authority,  and  that  it  was  a  vulgar 
prejudice  only  that  attributed  to  the  Church  of  Rome  the 
tolerance  of  unworthy  men  in  its  ministry.  Many  Pro- 
testants accordingly  showed  particular  attention  to  this 
priest. 

His  own  character  gave  no  more  encouragement  to  one 
supposition  than  to  another ;  but  might  be  reconciled  to 
any.  Elegant,  even  to  extreme,  at  times,  in  his  inter- 
course with  ladies  or  men  of  intelligence,  he  was,  some- 
times, negligent  and  even  abrupt  or  rude  to  either  sex. 
Highly  educated  and  studious,  as  he  was  thought  to  be, 
he  was  not  free  from  a  pedantry,  (or  affectation  of 
pedantry,)  in  conversation.     There  was  another  habitual 


I,  • 


201 


THIC   NKW    IMMKST. 


!i! 


i 


flli 


^H* 


I 


I. 

t 


antithesis  about  him  ;  ho  ailov/ed  hiinsell'  oIUmi  in  a  remark, 
whose  freedom  betrayed  his  familiarity  witli  tlie  ways 
and  wisdom  of  li»e  worM,  or  whose  sareasm,  bitterness,  or 
even  venom  sliowed  the  eheap  estimate  at  wiiieh  he  lieUl 
men  ;  while,  on  the  otiier  iian«l,  he  would  utter,  habit- 
ually, lof^y  priiu'iples  of  virtue,  and  warm  and  movinjif 
arguments  for  truth,  and  (juoted  (in  their  own  lan<j;ua«j;(\) 
the  offiees  of  the  Chureh  and  the  authorized  Scriptures, 
very  fre(|uently  and  with  «j;reat,  solenmity. 

It  was  eurious  to  see  the  inlluenee  of  his  new  associate 
upon  the  plain  old  Father  Tereuee.  Nominally  and 
ostensibly  at  the  head  of  the  eler<;y  of  the  district,  and 
enjoying  the  title  of  Very  Keverend,  ho  put  the  other 
forward,  very  of\en,  or  allowed  him  to  put  himself  for- 
ward, both  in  doing  and  counselling,  in  a  way  which 
proved  his  own  imlolence,  or  the  intellectual  or  other 
superiority  of  the  younger  man. 

In  one  respect  the  inlluenee  of  the  younger  upon  the 
elder  wjis  anmsingly  exhibited;  the  worthy  Father 
Terence,  liaving  resumed  his  studies,  and  making  a  point 
of  quoting  Latin  and  also  of  discoursing  ethics  and 
logic  when  the  presence  of  Father  Nicholas  tempted  him. 
He  prevented  the  recognition  of  his  own  precedence 
from  falling  into  desuetude,  by  asserting  or  inferring  it, 
on  occasion,  when  there  was  need. 

Father  Nicholas,  for  his  part,  proclaimed  his  own  sub- 
ordination. 

So  matters  stood  in  Bay-Harbor,  at  the  time  of  our 
story,  and  to  the  house  in  which  the  two  priests  lived,  not 
far  from  the  chapel,  we  are  now  to  bring  our  reader. 


It  must  have  been  about  seven  o'clock,  on  the  Tuesday 
morning,  that  Father  Debree  was  leading  the  horse  from 


Tllli   NKW   PRIEST  AT   BAY-IIAUBOB. 


20^ 


which  ho,  hml  just  dismounted,  into  the  premiscH  of  the 
lionian  Catholic  mission  at  15ay-IIarbor. 

"Ah!  thin,  it's  th(5  early  bird  catches  the  fox,"  cried 
11  j;ood-naturcd  voice  from  above.  "  Can  ye  tie  him 
some  phice,  a  bit?  an'  I'll  be  with  ye,  directly." 

While  tluj  utterer  of  the  proverb  was  coming,  or  prc- 
parinjij  to  come,  the  dismount(!d  horseman  looked  about 
for  the  "  some  jilace  "  at  which  to  IimcIi  his  horse,  u  thing 
more  easily  souf^ht  than  found.  Posts  there  were  none  ; 
trees  there  were  none;  and  at  length  the  horse  was  fas- 
tened to  the  paling  near  the  road. 

"  Y'are  youi»g(;r  than  mcself,"  said  the  voice,  which 
liad  before  addressed  him,  and  which  now  came  through 
tin;  door,  "  and  ye  haven't  that  weight  of  cares  and  labors ; 
but  I'm  glad  to  see  ye,"  it  added  heartily,  as  Father  De- 
bree  came  up  into  the  door  and  received  a  very  hospi- 
table shake  of  the  hand. 

"I  beg  pardon  for  being  so  unseasonable.  Father 
Terence,"  said  the  visitor.  "You  didn't  expect  mc  so 
early  ?  " 

"Ah,  brother,  if  ye  do  ever  be  placed  in  a  con- 
spikyis  and  responsible  post,  ye'll  know  that  it's  what 

belongs  to  us.      I  am  continyally,  continyally, but 

come  in  ! " 

As  he  talked  thus.  Father  Terence  had  gone,  with  dig- 
nity, solid  and  substantial,  before  his  guest  into  the  parlor. 
The  dignitary's  most  "  conspikyis  "  garment  was  not  sueh 
as  gentlemen  of  tiny  occupation  or  profession  are  accus- 
tomed to  appear  in.  It  was  not  white,  and  yet  it  was  not 
black  or  colored  ;  it  did  not  fit  him  very  handsomely ;  was 
somewhat  short  in  the  legs,  with  a  string  or  two  dangling 
from  the  lower  ends,  and,  indeed,  had  the  appearance  of 
something  other  than  a  pair  of  trousers. 


:,1 


2or> 


THK  NKW   rUIKST. 


*iv- 


llis  stockmfi;^  wen;  not  m"(\oll>i|»lkyl^  "  '  iHlIII^  (HU!"  UP  ' 
gi'MV  and  (MIC  of  bljick-mixod,  very  iii(hil}j;cnlly  pulhul  on 
ami  crowded  into  two  slippers,  (not  a  pair,)  of  wliieh  onn 
had  the  appearanee  of  bein^  a  s!ioe  tuiMU'd  down  at  heel, 
and  ihe  other  was  of  a  very  cde<i:ant  velvet,  ihon^h  of  a 
shajM'  somewhat  wider  than  is  elegant  in  a  hnniaii  foot. 
He  had  a  lonuj  black  coat  opening;  <h>wnward  from  a 
pinnule  bntton  fastened  at  the  neck  ;  and  on  his  head  a 
close  fitting  cotton  nighlcaj)  coininj]^  (h)wn  cosily  about  two 
good  thick  cheeks  and  tied  below  his  chin. 

The  face  above  this  body  was  ])lain,  but  kindly-look- 
ing; the  eyes  being  narrow,  the  nose  longish  and  thick, 
and  tiio  mouth  large  ;  but  a  good,  honest  face  it  was. 

"Take  a  chuir,  then!"  said  the  nightcapped  head, 
bowing  with  dignity. — ''  Now,  brother — " 

"  I've  hurried  you  too  much,  Father  O'Toole,"  said  the 
younger.     "  I  can  wait,  till  you're  i-eady  to  coma  down." 

"  Am  n't  I  down,  then  ?  "  asked  Father  Terence,  con- 
clusively. "  Do  ye  mind  the  psalm  where  it  says,  'Prce- 
veitcrunt  oculi  mei,  dUiiento  ut  meditarer'  ? "  * 

♦'  1-Cxcuse  me,  Reverend  Father  Terence,"  said  a  third 
voice  ;  "  you  never  lay  the  harness  off — " 

"  Ah  !  don't  flatter,  now,  Father  Nicholas  ! "  said  the 
elder,  but  looking  complacently  to  his  guest. 

"  Permit  me,"  said  the  other,  "  to  entertain  an  old 
neighbor  and  friend,  while  you  allow  yourself  a  little  time 
for  even  so  insignificant  an  object  as  dress." 

Father  Terence  had  evidently  not  bestowed  a  thought 
upon  80  insignificant  a  thing;  and,  glancing  downwards 
at  '  the  harness  which  he  had  not  laid  of!','  hastily  gath- 
ered the  skirts  of  his  black  garment  over  his  knees,  and 
retreated — quickly,  but  with  homely  dignity. 

*  ^ly  eyes  have  liasted  to  Thee,  in  the  dawn,  to  meditate. — Ps. 
Hi).  148. 


THK   NKW    IMJIKST   AT    HAY  HAlM'.OIi. 


207 


litate. — Ps. 


Katlicr  NiclioijiH  wns  not  liiiblti  to  c(!iisur(3  on  tlio  Bcoro 
of  IiJivinjj;  i.t'i^Kicrtcd  liis  dicss;  for  iiotliiii*^  could  iiiipross 
onu  witli  11  soiiso  ot  tlioroii;;liii('Hs,  niori!  pcrl'cclly  lluin  liin 
wliole  p(U'8oii;il  {ip|>cuniiic(! ;  liliick, — soiiuiwluit  ^losny, — 
from  hi.s  tliroat  down  to  the  floor;  contniHtod  ul)out  tliu 
niiddli!  l)y  liin  two  white  liaiids,  (of  which  on(!  glistiiiicd 
with  a  sijirnet-rin<!j,)  and  reiirAed  above  by  th<!  pale,  yel- 
lowish face,  witii  its  high  forcihead,  and  dark,  shining  eye, 
and  the  emphatic,  determined  mouth.  Above  the  face 
was  glossy  wavy  black  hnir,  cut  short. 

"  I'm  sorry  to  liave  seen  so  little  of  you,"  he  said,  in 
a  courtly  way,  without  warmtii,  to  the  gu(!st,  who  gave  no 
sign  of  being  awart;  of  his  presence  ; — '"•  we'i'e  so  busy  !  " 

So  the  other  turned,  and  said  gravely: — 

"  I'm  gl.'id  that  wt/  time  is  pretly  well  taken  up;  "  then 
(while  Father  Nicholas,  folding  his  arms,  paced  the  floor) 
reminded  himself,  aloud,  of  his  horse,  and  went  out. 

The  '  old  neighbors  and  friends  '  greeted  each  other. 

Solid  steps  were  heard ;  and,  soon,  were  bringing 
Father  Terence  back.  "  *  liimnm  est  viro,  cum  portaverit 
jiif/nm  ah  adolesccn/ut  Sha.'"*  he  was  saying. 

''  A  mind  stored  with  sacred  precepts  !  ^  dulclora  super 
mel  et  fiivtun,'^  t  Father  Nicholas  exclaimed,  while  he  also 
quietly  left  the  room. 

The  worthy  elder  came  to  emptiness. — He  said,  cheerily: 

"  The  present  company  seems  mostly  to  be  absent !  " 

llis  guest,  just  then,  came  in  ai»d  ajiologized. 

"Ah!"  said  Father  O'Toole,  "I  know,  meself,  it's 
quare  things  they  do.  I'd  one,  gnawed  his  mane  and  tail 
off,  manny's  the  time,  when  my  eye  was  off  him.  The 
children  all  said  the  one  thing  of  'um ;  and  sure,  they'd 

*  It  is  good  for  a  man  to  have  borne  the  yoke  from  his  youth. — 
Lam.  J  Kit.  3.  27. 
t  Sweeter  than  honey  and  the  honey -comb.—  I's.  I'J.  10. 


208 


TIIK  NKW  rniKST. 


Ml       rl 


the  best  chance  to  know,  having  nothiriij  else  to  do,  mostly, 
but  to  be  watchiii'  him  at  hiH  pasture."  Ilinguest  oouM 
not  helj)  smilinff  at  this  fiiinplc  notion  of  the  ncccHsity  of 
looking  after  a  vahiable  horse  who  had  c«)nie  some  miles  at 
a  good  rate,  lest  he  should  eat  off  his  own  tail  and  mane. 

"  Ye'll  stay  the  day,  then,  like  a  man  of  good  sense, 
won't  ye,"  asked  Father  O'Toole. — •'  It's  not  tiiat  mneh 
time  I  give  upon  the  externals; — *^  tnrbamur — '  what's 
this  it  is? — * err/n — plurima  ; '  *  one  thiuf/s  necensarij  :^ 
but  I'm  more  confonning  and  shutablo,  now." 

Indeed  he  was ;  dressed  in  a  long,  black  cassock  of 
camlet,  or  something  like  it ;  black  stock  and  black  stock- 
ings, and  shoes  with  small  silver,  (at  least  shining) 
buckles  on  them  ;  and  irongray  locks  bi^hind  ;  respectable, 
if  not  venerable,  he  looked  like  one  of  the  Irish  Roman 
priests  of  the  old  time,  who  had  been  twenty  or  thirty 
years  in  the  island. 

"  We'll  be  having  breakfast  shortly,"  said  the  host ; 
"  it's  not  good  talking  too  much  with  only  air  in  your 
belly  ;  and  after  breakfast  we'll  hear  how  ye're  getting  on  " 

The  old  gentleman  went  to  see  after  breakfast,  or  some 
oilier  matter,  and  Mr.  Debree  was  left  to  himself. 

Nothing  appeared  in  the  room  to  occupy  the  attention 
of  the  visitor  but  two  remains  of  books,  one  painting  on 
the  wall,  and  a  box  upon  the  mantel-shelf.  The  furni- 
ture was  scanty,  not  quite  clean,  and  many  of  the  pieces 
occupied  with  things  of  many  kinds.  Of  the  books  upon 
the  table,  one  was  a  breviary  without  covers,  and  almost 
without  contents ;  for  a  great  deal  of  what  had  formerly 
been  paper  was  now  nothing.  Of  what  remained  in  type 
and  tissue,  a  greasy  flaccidness  had  taken  hold.  The  other 
was  an  odd  volume  of  Mr.  Alban  Butler's  Lives  of  Saint?, 
*  We  are  troubled  about  many  things. 


i:i: 


■   I 


TIIK   NKW    IMMKST    AT   HAY-HAKnOR. 


209 


of  which  it  would  he  hard  to  say  why  it  liad  lost  one 
covrr;  for  tho  inside  .showed  no  such  nmrks  of  use  and 
wc;ir  as  would  account  for  it.  Some  |)laces  had  been  fin- 
g(;nMl,  atul  here  a  scrap  of  a  tobacco  wrapping-paper, 
and  there  some  pjrains  of  snuff,  showed  that,  by  accident 
or  of  set  purpose,  its  bulk  of  pa^es  had  been  sometimes 
br()k(Mi. 

Father  Terence  soon  called  him  to  breakfast,  and  said, 
"//e  takes  his  meals  by  himself,  mostly." 

As  may  be  supposed,  no  duty  of  hospitality  was  omit- 
ted by  the  kindly  Jrishman,  and  a  ^ood  example  was  set 
in  his  own  j)erson  how  to  treat  an  honest  hunger. 

There  were  several  subjects  on  which  the  two  priests 
were  to  confer,  or  did  conf«'r;  but  Fatlu  "  Dubree  was 
still  occupied  with  the  loss  of  Skipper  George's  daughter, 
and  the  suspicions  attaching  to  the  Urstons  and  to  the 
nuns  from  Bay-Harbor.  The  old  priest  took  a  kindly 
interest. 

"  Indade,  it's  a  sad  thing  for  a  father  to  lose  his  child ! " 
said  he. 

"  liut  he's  a  Protestant,"  said  Father  Debree. 

"  And  hasn't  a  Protestant  feelings  ?  Ay,  and  some  o' 
them  got  the  best  o'  feelings.  I'm  sure  yerself's  no  call 
to  say  against  it. — It's  in  religion  they  make  the  great 
mistake." 

"  I'm  not  inclined  to  deny  it.  Father  Terence,  and  this 
is  a  noble  man,  this  Skipper  George  ;  but " 

"  And  who's  Skipper  George,  then  ?  Is  he  the  father? 
Oh  !  sure  there's  good  Protestants  ;  and  it's  hard  to  lose 
a  child  that  way,  and  not  to  know  is  she  dead  or  living,  or 
torn  to  pieces,  or  what !  " 

"  Not  every  one  has  such  good  feeling,  when  the  father's 

a  Protestant." 

14 


210 


THE  NEW   PRIEST. 


f  ;;  ■' 


"  But  the  Urstons  are  not  that  way,  at  all ;  and  Jamea 
was  a  good  boy  ! "  answered  the  old  priest. 

"  It's  a  mystery,  and  a  deplorable  one !  I  couldn't 
think  they've  taken  her ;  but  she  was  last  seen  near  their 
house,  probably ;  and  some  things  belonging  to  her  have 
been  found  at  the  house  and  near  it ;  there's  no  doubt  of 
that ; " 

— "  And  haven't  ye  the  direction  of  them  ?  "  asked 
Father  Terence. 

"  Mrs.  Calloran  confesses  to  Father  Crarapton.  I 
never  see  James.  She  tells  me  that  he's  leaving  the 
Church." 

"  No !  no !  "  said  the  old  priest,  with  great  feeling ; 
then  shook  his  head  and  added,  "  I  hadn't  the  charge  of 
him,  this  while  back. — I  mind  hearing  this  girl  was  lead- 
ing him  away,  but  I  can't  think  it  of  him." 

"  I  don't  believe  she  has  done  it.  Father  Terence,  from 
all  that  I  can  hear.  He  may  have  fallen  in  love  with 
her." 

'■  And  why  would  she  let  him,  and  him  going  to  be  a 
priest  ?  " 

"  There  were  some  nuns,  so  it  seems,  at  Mr.  Urston's 
house  that  evening,"  said  Father  Debree,  returning  to  the 
former  subject ;  "  and  it's  said  that  they  were  seen  carry- 
ing some  one  away." 

"  It's  little  I  know  about  the  holy  women,"  Father  Te- 
rence answered,  "  more  than  if  they  were  the  Eleven 
Thousand  Virgins  itself;  but  what  would  they  rlo  the 
like  for  ?  And  would  ani/  one  belonging  to  this,  whatever 
way  it  was  with  the  girl,  without  me  knowing  it  ? — but 
will  ye  see  to  the  boy  James  ?  And  couldn't  ye  bring 
him  to  speak  vitli  me  ?  " 

Falliur  Terence  forgot  and  neglected  his  own  break- 


THE   NKW   PRIKST   AT   BAY-HARBOR. 


211 


fast,  thouj^h  he  did  not  forget  his  hospitality.  He  seemed 
ahnost  impatient  to  have  liis  commission  undertaken  im- 
mediately. 

His  guest,  too,  appeared  to  have  little  appetite  ;  but  he 
lingered  after  they  left  the  table,  and  presently  said : — 

"  There  was  another  subject,  Father  Terence  " 

"  Come  and  see  rae  again,  do  !  and  we'll  talk  of  every 
thing ;  and  don't  forget  the  lad.  I'd  not  let  you  go  at  all, 
only  for  that." 

The  young  priest  accordingly  took  Lis  leave. 


*lf 


l!  .-'1 


If  i  • 


•212 


THE   NKW  PRIEST. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

A    CALL    AT   A   NUNNERY. 

DJOINING  the  priest's  house  in  Bay-Harbor 
was  a  small  building  of  later  construction,  en- 
tered from  the  opposite  direction.  At  the  door 
of  this  building,  a  pretty  loud  not  continuous  rapping 
was  heard  early  in  the  forenoon  of  Tuesday,  the  nine- 
teenth day  of  August ;  and  again  and  again. 

"  Wall,  s'pose  1  may's  well  go  'n'  stir  up  the  neighbors 
a  mite,  'n'  see  what's  the  matter  here.  'Guess  they've 
got  a  little  o'  the  spirit  o'  slumber  in  'em,  b'  th'  way  they 
act,"  said  the  visitor. — A  truculent  man  was  hurrying 
to  him,  from  his  work. 

Presently  a  noise  was  heard  within  the  house,  and 
the  door  was  unlocked,  unbolted,  and  opened.  The  work- 
man stood  still. — The  visitor  was  already  at  some  dis- 
tance from  the  scene  of  his  late  exercise,  and,  in  his  way 
of  walking,  was  making  many  long  steps  between  it  and 
himself.  At  the  opening  of  the  door,  he  came  back  with 
alacrity ;  glancing,  only,  at  the  watchful  workman. 

"  Wanted  to  see  the  head  o'  this  Inst'tootion  a  minute, 
'f  'taint  too  m'ch  trouble.  Wun't  you  jest  ask  her  to  step 
this  way  ?  "  he  said,  as  he  came  to  the  door. 

The  janitress  hesitated  ;  but,  saying  '  she  would  speak 
to  Sister  Theresa,'  shut  the  door  gently  between  the  holy 
women  and  the  man  from  the  world  without. 


ii'' 


A   CALL   AT   A  XUNNKRY. 


213 


Another  nun  appeared,  and  meekly  waited  until  the 
visitor  should  declare  his  errand.  The  visitor,  for  his 
part,  had  not  his  former  fluency  of  sj)eech. 

"  'Tvvas  on  business  o'  some  'mportauce  t'  the  cath'lic 
church,"  he  said. 

"  I  must  refer  you  to  the  reverend  clergy,  sir.  You'll 
find  one  of  them  at  the  other  door.  Father  Terence  or 
Father  Nicholas."  She  was  very  definite,  though  very 
gentle. 

"  Wall,  ma'am,"  said  the  American,  "  'f  ye  think  I'd 
bes'  go  'n'  see  holy  Father  Nichols,  first,  wh'  I'll  go.  'M 
sorry  'f  I've  disturbed  ye ;  's  no  harm  meant,  I'm  sure. 
If  ye'll  make  my  compliments  t'  the  rest,  I'll  say  *  Good 
morniu',  ma'am  ' ; "  and  he  held  out  his  hand  for  a  part- 
ing courtesy.  He  might  as  well  have  held  it  out  to  the 
moon  ;  and,  seeing  this,  he  said  :  — 

"  Hope  the's  no  hos-tile  feelings  ;  wish  ye  *  Good-day,* 
ma'am." 

The  sister  bowed  gravely,  and  gently  shut  the  door. 

"  Wall,  look  a'  here,"  said  Mr.  Bangs,  as  he  found  him- 
self alone  with  himself,  on  the  outside,  turning  round  to 
survey  the  building  and  neighborhood. 

"  Have  you  business  with  some  one  here  ?  "  asked  a 
voice  that  made  him  start  a  little ;  and  he  saw  Father 
Nicholas,  such  as  we  have  described  him. 

"  Wall !  ol'  Gen'l  Isril  Putnam's  wolf  was  a  fool  to 
this,"  said  Mr.  Bangs,  in  a  low  voice,  by  way  of  rein- 
stating himself  in  his  self-possession  ;  then  aloud,  "  Oh  ! 

How  d'ye  do,  Mr. ?     Can't  'xacly  call  ye  by  name 

— Holy  Father  guess  '11  do.  Wall,  I  did  have  a  little 
business  with  'em,  'r  some  of  'em.  Seems  to  be  c'nsid'ble 
rural  retirement  'bout  this — nunnery,  s'pose  'tis, — .  This 
country  don't  seem  t'  have  much  natch'l  gift 't  raisin'  trees 


M-ll 

4 

■'til 


il    i 


«r 


r- 


|i: 


214 


Tin-:  NF.w  rniKST. 


1 

jiv 

;  Vj.  *;  ^  i 

il  .  ! 

illL,.,3P' 

— don't  seem  't  lake  to  it. — Bangs,  my  name  is.  Come 
fm  th'  States." 

"  And  may  I  ask,  Mr.  Bangs,  what  particular  business 
you  had  here  ?  " 

"  Certin ;  's  no  harm  'n  askin',  ye  know.  'T's  the 
motto  'f  the  R'public,  ye  may  say." 

"  I  should  be  glad  to  know,  then,"  said  Father  Nicholas, 
drily. 

"  Shouldn't  wonder  'f  'twould  'ford  ye  some  pleasure ; 
though  guess  ye'll  be  ruther  'stonished,  f 'r  a  spell.  Come 
to  look  int'  this  r'ligion-business  a  mite.  Don't  mind 
tellin'  you.      Prove  to  E-1  Bangs  " — 

Father  Nicholas  smiled :  "  Oh !  Mr.  Bangs,  from  Pe- 
terport,  the  American  merchant ! "  said  he.    "  Your  nation 

is    becoming   distinguished ,"    ("they're    'bout    it,    I 

b'lieve,"  inserted  Mr.  Bangs,  by  way  of  commentary,) 
"  for  intelligence  and  enterprise."  ("  The'  is  such  a  thing's 
bein'  cute,  certin,"  said  Mr.  Bangs.)  "  So  you  wanted 
to  make  some  religious  inquiries  ?  " 

"  Wall,  'snmch  that  's  any  thing,  'guess,"  said  Mr. 
Bangs,  who,  as  he  concentrated  his  force  upon  his  words, 
knitted  his  brows,  and  looked  a  little  to  the  left  of  the 
person  he  was  addressing,  as  we  are  taught  to  look  at 
bright  bodies  in  the  sky.  "  D'ye  s'pose  they'd  gi'  me  a 
chance  to  git  conviction  ?  'T  any  rate,  t'  look  into  it  and 
join, 'f  I  felt  like  it?" 

"  Oh !  yes,"  answered  the  priest,  "  any  body  can  have 
a  chance.     There's  a  way  wide  enough." 

"  Yes. — Bible  says, '  Wide  is  the  way,' "  said  Mr.  Bangs. 
"  Ye  see  the's  all  my  folks  are  Protestants,  'n'  al'a's  were, 
fur's  I  know,  f 'm  th'  beginning  of  the  Bangses,  and  stood 
p'tty  high,  too, — that  is,  some  of  'em  did.  Why,  my  great 
uncle  was  Deacon  Parsimmon  Tarbox — lived  at  Brain- 


A  CALL  AT   A  NUNNERY. 


21.") 


Come 


siness 


tree,  *n  Massacliiisotts.  'Tain't  likely  you  ever  heard  of 
him;  but  I  dono  what  'd  come  over  'em  to  hear  't  one  o* 
the  fiimily  M  turned  Catholic." 

"  liut  let  me  ask,  If  you  wanted  to  see  me,  how  came 
you  to  call  here  ?  " 

"  Wall,  sir.  I  didn't  exactly  come  to  see  you.  I  come 
t'  see  some  o'  the  folks  that  keep  this  'stablishment." 

"  What  sort  of  establishment  do  you  take  this  to  be, 
then?" 

"  Why,  a  nunnery,  'r  a  convent,  or  somethin'  o'  that 
sort." 

"  But  you  don't  ex[)ect  to  take  the  veil,  do  you  ?  "  in- 
quii-ed  the  priest,  with  an  unqualified  smile. 

"  No.  *  'Vale  o'  tears  '  's  all  my  veil,  I  guess.  But  you 
see,  it's  these  nunneries,  and  mummeries,  'n'  what  not," 
(Mr.  Bangs  looked  very  harmless,)  "are  gen'lly  counted 
about  the  hardest  thing  in  the  Catholic  religion  ;  and  my 
way  is,  al'a's  to  go  chock  up  to  head  quarters,  when  I 
want  to  know  about  a  thi.ig,  and  so,  thinks  I,  I'll  jes'  go 
and  see  for  myself." 

"  Did  you  expect  to  walk  right  in  and  look  about  for 
yourself?" 

"  Wall,  I  thought,  you  know,  'taint  like  one  o'  those 
Eastern  hairims,  where  they  wun't  let  a  fellah  go  in,  any 
way,  'cause  the  women  all  belong  to  'em,  and  they're 
afraid  to  have  'em  ketched  or  snapped  up.  Says  I,  This 
is  a  Christian  institootion,  all  open  and  above  board." 

"  Yes,  you're  right,  to  a  proper  extent.  There  is  no 
concealmcMit  but  what  is  necessary  for  the  object ;  which 
is,  retirement  from  the  world  in  peace  and  safety.  Men^ 
of  course,  are  excluded,  because  this  is  a  house  of  holy 
women." 

"  Cer-tin.     'Stablishraent  I'k'  this  'd  make  a  church  of 


1 


* 

i 


'1)1 

m 


r 


i«' 


n\U 


U  i:i 


210 


THE  XKW   riUKST. 


itself,  and  might  have  meetin', — ?nass,  ye  know, — all  t 
themselves,  and  a  priest  o'  their  own.  Why,  't  the  Lu- 
natic 'Sylum  up  to  Worcester,  they  have  a  preacher,  and 
keep  the  men  and  women — wall,  keep  *em  separate,  any 
way.  Say  here's  where  the  females  sit,  all  'long  here," 
(waving  his  hand,)  "  then  here's  what  ye  may  call  a  broad 
aisle ." 

"  May  1  inquire  what  particular  object  you  had  in  view 
in  seeing  the  head  of  tlie  family  here  ?  "  asked  the  Priest. 

"  Wh'  ye  know  tli'  Protestants  'r'  pleggy  hard  upon 
convents ; — clappin'  gals  up,  an'  keepin'  'em  'n  prison,  'n* 
dungeon,  'n'  what  not.  When  the's  so  much  'f  it,  ye 
want  t'  hear  t'other  side.  Over  here  to  Peterport,  th* 
wanted  me  to  go  'n'  testify  't  I  saw  the  iiuns  acarr'in*  off 
that  gal,  (dow!i  the  rocks,  there ;)  but  I  come  away  'n* 
left  'em,  s'pose  ye  heard ; — 's  such  a  thing  's  goin'  too  far. 
Sometimes  they  want  to  be  carried  off;  'n'  sometimes  the* 
aint  'ny  carr'in'  off  'bout  it.  Thinks  I,  's  nothin'  'gainst 
my  goin'  'n'  callin'  'n  a  fash'nable  way,  'n'  takin'  a  look. 
The's  ben  some  pleggy  smart  men  'n  the  Catholic  church  ; 
(there's  Cardinal  Wolsey ;)  and  these  Protestants,  s'pose 
you'll  admit,  are  a  little  the  slowest  race ! — kith,  kin,  kit, 
— the  whole  boodle  of  'era.  Their  wits  ain't  cute  'nough 
to  find  the  holes  in  their  heads,  /  b'lieve.  Why,  there's 
their  Magistrate  can't  stand  it :  shouldn't  wonder  'f  he 
turned." 

At  this  point  Mr.  Bangs  waited  for  his  companion,  who 
had  been  apparently  rather  entertained  by  the  American's 
matter  and  manner. 

"  You  saw  Sister  Theresa,  I  suppose  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Yes,  sir ;  'n'  found  her  quite  the  lady.  Don't  seem 
t'  come  out,  'xactly,  I'k'  some — owin'  to  bringin'  up,  likely 
—but  what  ye'd  cal]  a  fine  woman.     Now,  'n  th'  States, 


A   CALL   AT   A  NUNNKRY. 


217 


^r,  and 
e,  any 
here," 
broad 


ye  walk  right  up  to  a  public  inst'tootion,  'n'  they  invite  ye 
in,  and  show  ye  the  whole  concern,  'n'  ask  ye  to  write 
your  name  'n  a  big  book  t'  show  't  you  ben  there." 

"  Well,  Mr.  Bangs,  it's  unusual,  but  your  case  is  peculiar, 
being  a  citizen  of  the  Great  Republic,  and  disposed  to  be 
impartial.  Perhaps  we  might  make  an  exception  in  your 
favor.  I  suppose  the  sooner  the  better,  in  your  opinion. 
For  instruction  I  shall  introduce  you  to  the  Very  Rev- 
erend Father  O'Toole,  by-and-by." 

"  Wall,  sir,  tlie's  a  hymn  (dono's  y'  ever  heard  it) 
goes — 

•  Now's  the  day,  an'  now's  the  hour: 
See  the  front  o'  Babel  tower: 
Set  approach  proud  Satan's  power: 
Sin  an'  Shivery.'  " 


"  I's  all'a's  brought  up  t'  know  the  value  'f  time,  'n'  do 
a  thing  while  ye're  about  it.  I's  brought  up  there  by 
Boston,  ye  know, — close  by,  out  to  Needham,  that  is, 
where  they  had  the  Gen'l  Trainin',  (used  to,  'n  I's  a 
sliaver,  't  any  rate.)  Never  had  t'  tell  me,  '  Go  to  yer 
aunt,  ye  sluggard.'  Wall,  folks  al'a's  hed  the  credit  o' 
bringin'  up  p'ty  fair  specimens,  about  Baston,  you  know. 
'Course  your  province-people  (that  is,  dono  'bout  the 
priest-psLrt,  but  province-folks  gen'lly)  knovr  all  about 
Boston  's  well  's  I  can  tell  ye.  Why,  fact,  up  here  in 
Canady,  ('ts  all  same  thing,  s'pose,)  they  used  to  call  all 
the  people  in  the  States  '  Bostonese,'  or  '  Bostonase,'  or 
whatever  the  French  word  is.  Wall,  the  bringin'  up 
'bout  Boston .  's  p'tty  well  known.  I's  a  mere  runt  to 
some  of  'em ;  but,  's  I's  sayin',  about  this  Peterport,  's 
they  call  it — might 's  well  call  it  Potter-port,  'n'  be  done 
with  it — for  such  a  potterin'  and  pokin'  about  their  busi- 
ness, I  never  saw.  Yankee  Doodle  's  our  naytional  toone, 


m 


>\ll 


!lH 


,     ! 


'<  l' 


>» 


) 


i. 


1-f  'I 


218 


THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


ye  know  ;  and  there  aint  'ny  stop  about  that ;  when  our 
Yankees  set  out  with  that,  something's  got  to  go,  ship- 
shape or  shop-shape,  'r  some  way.  A  fellah  must  hev  a 
plaguy  sight  of  stick  in  his  shoes  that  don't  go  ahead  to 
that  toone.  'Twa'n't  so  much  the  fault  o'  the  British,  's 
'twas  becos  nothin'  ca7i  stand  before  our  Yankees  when 
they're  hitched  on  to  it  and  that  toone  agoin'.     Wh'  't 

Bunker that's  'bout  wars  and  battles,  though ;  don't 

concern  us,  now ;  but  I  dono's  ye  ever  noticed  what  a  sol- 
emn psalm-toone  that  '11  make,  only  put  it  slow  enough. 
Faw-hCl-law  !  "  he  sang,  strMigliienhig  his  neck  and  swell- 
ing out  his  throat,  as  if  beginning  au  illustration  of  the 
adaptedness  of  his  favorite  air. 

The  Priest  smiled.    «  We'll  try,  then,"  said  he. 

So  saying,  he  turned  to  the  door  on  which  the  knuckles 
of  the  American  had  been  playing  so  persistently,  and 
knocking  three  times,  and  ringing  a  bell,  gave  the  sen- 
tence, "  Ave,  Maria  Sanctissima !  "*  in  a  clear  voice.  An 
answer  was  made  by  a  woman,  "  Sine  labe  concepta,^'  f 
and  then  the  entrance  was  made  open  to  them. 

Father  Nicholas  went  forward  into  the  nearest  room, 
Mr.  Bangs  following,  and  the  sister  being  in  the  rear. 
He  then  turned  square  about  and  said :  "  Sister  Agnes, 
this  visitor  from  the  United  States  of  America  is  making 
inquiries  into  the  truths  of  our  Most  Holy  Faith.  He  has 
a  desire  to  ascertain  whether  our  religious  houses  are 
prisons.  Have  the  kindness  to  say  to  Sister  Theresa, 
that,  with  her  leave,  we  are  come  to  see  this  simple  little 
house." 

— "What's  your  will.  Father  Nicholas?"  asked  Sister 
Theresa,  meekly,  as  she  entered. 

"  Mr.  Bangs,  Ma'am, — you  recollect,"  said  the  Ameri- 
can, recaUing  her  memory  to  himself. 

*  Hail,  Mary  Mo:t  Holy!  f  ^Vithout  stain  conceived. 


A  CALL  AT   A  NUNNERY 


219 


"  I  only  wish  to  ask  perrnisalon,  in  favor  of  JNIr.  Bangs, 
here,  to  go  through  your  little  establishment  in  my  com- 
pany. It  is  not  lor  the  gratification  of  idle  curio.sity,  but 
for  important  reasons,  -which  I  will  explain  hereafter," 
said  Father  Nicholas,  looking  significantly,  less  at  Sister 
Theresa  than  at  the  visitor,  who  answered,  with  an  ex- 
pression of  intelligence,  "  Jes'  so." 

"J^ill  you  have  the  kindness  to  direct  me?"  asked 
she,  in  return. 

"  We  will  follow  you,  if  you  please." 

"  And  where  shall  we  begin  ?  "  asked  she  again,  still  in 
uncertainty. 

"  Any  where.  Here,  for  example,  at  the  beginning, 
if  you'll  let  me  take  the  guide's  olficc,"  said  the  Priest. 
"  This  room,  Mr.  Bangs,  is  the  parlor.  Not  very  splen- 
did, you  see." 

"  Certin.  This  paintin'  ain't  a  common  work,  by  con- 
sid'ble.  One  o'  the  best  things  o'  that  sort,  I  'most  ever 
saw."  In  saying  this,  the  American  put  himself  at  a 
distance,  inclined  his  head  a  little  to  one  side,  and  applied 
his  hand,  made  into  a  tube,  to  his  right  eye,  closing  the 
other.     "  Seems  to  freshen  on  the  gaze  !  don't  it !  " 

"  This  room,  with  this  sort  of  hole  in  the  door,"  con- 
tinued his  reverend  guide,  to  the  tasteful  American,  not 
too  abruptly,  opening  the  door  communicating  with  the 
room  in  the  rear,  througli  which  the  nun  had  come  to  the 
former  interview  with  her  curious  visitor,  "is  a  sort  of 
back-parlor,  having  this  opening  to  allow  the  ladies  to 
communicate,  if  necessary,  with  persons  here,  without  ex- 
posing themselves  to  the  observation  of  strangers  or  others." 

"  Jes'  so.  Good  '1 1'k'  one  o'  the  peek-holes  at  Bunkum's 
Grand  Universal  Skepticon,  down  to  Boston  ;  greatest 
thing  o'  the  kind  in  the  world,  thoy  say.     T  don't  s'pose 


i 


1 


i 
i 


m 


i-    '". 


Il< 


nil 


'Ii.' i  ! 


220 


THE  NKW   PRIICST. 


Sister  Tlieresy  ever  had  much  notion  for  those  things ; 
but  you're  aware  there  are  great, — wall, — " 

"  Here  we  are  at  the  last  room  on  this  floor.  This 
little  place  is  a  private  retiring  room,  for  prayer,"  inter- 
rupted the  Priest,  gently  and  easily, — Mr.  Bangs  accept- 
ing the  interruption  as  quite  regular. 

"  Don't  seem  to  make  much  provision  f  the  wants  o 
the  flesh,  any  how,"  said  the  latter.  "  First  house,  pretty 
much,  's  I  may  say,  I  ever  see  'thout  a  kitchin.  Wall,  I 
didn't  s'pose  'twas  a  fact,  but  they  used  to  say,  you  know, 
that  nuns  lived  p'tty  much  like  Injuns,  on  parched  com, 
and  so  on." 

"  The  Sisters'  simple  cooking  is  done  in  the  adjoining 
house,  belonging  to  the  Reverend  Father  O'Toole,"  ex- 
plained his  guide,  "  for  the  Mission,  in  this  place." 

"  Very  solemn  fixin',  certin,"  said  Mr.  Bangs,  as  Father 
Nicholas  and  the  lady  stood  silent,  after  having  crossed 
themselves  at  siijht  of  the  crucifix,  and  one  of  the  usual 
representations  of  the  Virgin  and  Child,  before  which 
''  fiiin',"  as  it  had  just  been  called,  stood,  on  a  little 
bracket-shelf,  a  metal  candlestick  and  candle  and  a  few 
very  artificial  flowers,  with  one  real  moss  rose  and  three 
real  rose  leaves  among  them. 

**  I  ain't  quite  used  to  doin'  that,  yet,"  continued  the 
visitor,  referring  to  the  crossing,  and  gesticulating  after 
some  fashion  of  his  own.  While  he  was  makino:  his 
demonstration,  liowever,  there  was  some  sound  of  a  couirh 
or  sneeze  from  more  than  one  of  the  neio-hborini;  females, 
whoever  or  wherever  they  were. 

"  Pupils,  or  servants,"  said  the  priestly  conductor,  look- 
ing with  something  like  asperity  towards  the  Sister;  then, 
turning  the  end  of  the  sentence  to  Mr.  Bangs,  "  We  shall 
soon  run  through  our  narrow  limits ;  and  you  will  get  no 


A  CALL  AT  A  NUNNKRY. 


221 


very  exalted  notion  of  the  importance  of  our  meek  little 
community,"  continued  Father  Nicholas.  "  Our  next  steps 
go  up  these  narrow  stairs." 

"  Guess  th'r'  ain't  much  goin*  down,  f 'r  't  seems  folks 
gen'lly,  here,  think  the  land  turns  to  water,  'little  way 
down.  No  need  o'  raisin'  a  cry  o'  dungeons,  and  lockups, 
and  what-nots,  under  ground.  Why,  here's  a  little  door — 
fact, — goin'  down  to  some  root-cellar,  likely  ; — '  should  like 
to  see  a  cellar  under  ground,  f  once,  f '  variety,  in  thia 
country." 

"  You  shall  be  gratified,  certainly,"  said  his  ecclesiasti- 
cal guide,  "  as  far  as  may  be ;  but  I  fancy  that  not  much 
is  to  be  seen,  unless  the  darkness  is  visible." 

The  American  putting  his  eyes  and  nose  down  towards 
the  opening,  remarked  upon  it,  very  summarily,  "  why, 
't  is  '  's  dark  's  a  pitch-pipe,'  's  the  boy  said,  and  smells 
strong  'f  old  straw  or  hay  ;  but  't's  a  comfort  to  see  it,  any 
how.  You  see,  comin'  right  f  m  the  States,  where  a  man 
*d  jest  'bout  's  soon  think  of  hevin'  no  pockit  in  his  pants, 
as  not  hevin'  a  cellar  to  his  house,  it  looks  strange  to  me 
not  seein'  one,  all  the  time  I've  ben  here :  one  o'  your 
real  old-fashioned  ones  comes  in  well.  What  curis  sort 
o'  partitions  they  have  here,  compared  'th  real  walls  o' 
lath  and  plaster,"  he  concluded,  knocking,  at  the  same 
time,  with  the  knuckle  of  one  finger,  on  the  thin  deal  that 
separated  one  room  from  another. 

"  These  are  slight  houses,  certainly  ;  but  religious  per- 
sons, of  all  people,  may  be  content  to  have  what  will  last 
their  day :  '  Non^  enim,  habemus  hie — for  we  have  not 
here  a  lasting  city,  but  we  seek  one  that  is  to  come.'  " 

"  Certin,"  said  Mr.  Bangs.    "  We  ought  to,  any  how." 

The  visiting  procession  passed  now  up  the  little  creak- 
ing stairs,  the  priest  leading ;  Mr.  Bangs  accompanyin<2 


i'!l 


: 

«)•).) 


TlIK    NKW    I'lMKST. 


Iiitn  hy  jjjoliig  up  two  stairs  at  a  time,  and  then,  poisinp; 
iiimselt  tor  a  moment,  so  as  to  keep  tlie  saiiK!  relative  tiis- 
taru!e  between  himself  and  the  rest  of  the  l)arty,  belbre 
and  behind ;  the  females  bringing  uj)  the  rear. 

"Tins  is  *recrea(ion-honr,'  is  it  not,  Sist(M'  Theresa?" 
inquired  tin;  guide,  and,  reeeiving  an  answer  in  the 
atlirmative,  added,  "  I  shall  have  great  pleasure,  Mr. 
]Jangs,  in  giving  you  an  opportunity  of  seeing  every 
member  of  the  household,  wllhout  any  exception;  the  list 
is  not  as  long  as  the  roll  of  Xerxes'  army,  or  the  immortal 
Washington's.  We  number  only  live,  all  told,  I  think : 
one  sick.  Sisters  'J'heresa,  Agnes,  Frances,  Catharine, 
and  liridg(jt ;  two  professed,  as  we  call  them  ;  one  lay, 
one  novice,  one  })ostulant." 

"  Yes :  j)ostulate  means  wanted,  or  as'd,  1  b'lievc  ;  one 
*t  you  want  to  have  join,  I  guess." 

''  Reverse  it,  and  you  have  the  meaning  of  postulant, 
exactly ;  one  that  asks  to  be  admitted." 

"  Oh,  postulant  /  I's  thinkin'  of  postulate.  I  got  that 
out  of  an  old  book  o'  my  father's,  time  I  was  keepin*  com- 
pany o'  Casty — widl,  a  good  while  ago." 

"  This  room  is  what  you'll  understand,  at  once,"  open- 
ing one  to  the  left,  of  some  ten  feet  by  twelve,  with  a 
recess  at  the  further  end,  about  five  feet  det^p  and  six  feet 
wide,  railed  across  even  with  what  was  left  of  the  wall ; 
which  latter  was  occu])ied  entirely  by  a  closed  door  on 
one  side,  and  an  onen  one  on  the  other,  showing  a  little 
closet  opening  into  the  recess  belbre  spoken  of,  with  a 
screen  or  paling. 

"  That,  you  see,  is  an  altar ;  these  pictures  around  the 
room  are  what  we  call  stations,  used  for  marking  different 
places  to  kneel  and  pray." 

"  I   see  !  "    said    the    visitor ;    "  solemn-lookin'    jdace, 


A   CALL  AT   A  NUNNKRY. 


223 


fiict ;"  tluMi  tuniinn^  J^wjiy,  as  before,  vvitli  a  bow,  be  said 
to  Fatlier  Nicholas,  "this  liouse  stows  more,  atop,  *ii  down 
b'low,  's  they  used  to  tell  o'  the  York  Uiitciiinaii  and  ids 
bat." 

"  You've  an  excellent  ey<',  sir.  This  room  is  taken  out 
of  the  next  house  that  1  spoke  of.  If  you'd  faney  it,  you 
f<hall  see  the  whole  arraiijjjement  of  that,  also,  by  and  by. 
Ah  !  here  is  Sister  Frances  ;  and  there  is  Sister  Ursula." 
(Th<;y  all,  except  Sister  Theresa,  stood  with  tluiir  backs 
turned  towai'd  the  visitors.)  "•  You  sec  all  of  the  family 
but  one.  Those;  rooms  are  dormitorii  ,"  opening  one  of 
the  doors  which  led  into  a  plain  room,  (like  those  with 
which  the  reader  is  familiar  enougii,)  containing  several 
bare  and  hard-looking  beds,  and  little  furniture  of  any 
kind. beside. 

Mr.  Bangs  cast  a  sharp  side-glance  into  this  room,  and 
tlien  looked  forward  for  further  progress.  Before  the 
next  door  were  standinsr  several  of  the  Sisters  ;  Sister 
Theresa  explaining  that  this  was  the  chamber  of  the  sick. 

"  Please  to  let  our  visitor  see  the  inside  of  the  sick- 
room, in  which  the  gentle  hands  of  our  religious  smooth 
the  pillow  of  the  afflicted,  as  a  sister.  '  Universum  stratum 
ejus  versasti — thou  hast  turned  his  whole  couch  in  his 
sickness,'  Is  the  sufferer  awake  ?  "  the  priest  asked,  in 
a  tender  and  sympathizing  tone. 

"  No,  Father  Nicholas,  she  has  been  sleeping  for  some 
time,  quite  heavily,"  answered,  in  a  whisper,  the  nun  who 
held  the  door,  and  who,  as  she  spoke,  threw  it  open  and 
drew  herself  aside,  as  did  Sister  Theresa,  who  had  been 
standing  beside  her  in  front  of  the  entrance. 

The  American,  not  changing  either  his  place  or  posture, 
except  to  bend  his  head,  with  unwonted  reverence,  down- 
ward, stood,  demisso  ore,  with  a  subdued  look,  bent  first 


vn 


i  ■in; 

■'       '       J;'l 

ij  .1  ■'                  i 

ill                        I 

uii 


i  III 


m. 


■  1 


:i:r 


lit 


p 


Hi''  i 


I" 


224 


THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


towards  the  bed  on  which  the  mere  outline  of  t!;c  sick 
one  could  be  seen,  and  then  gradually  turned  to  other 
objects  in  the  room.  There  was  such  perfect  silence,  that 
the  heavy,  regular  breathing  was  distinctly  heard  from 
within.  The  change  which  had  passed  upon  the  visitor, 
in  presence  of  this  scene  of  human  need  and  helplessness, 
was  very  striking,  as  he  stood  thus  subdued,  with  hia 
hands  before  him,  one  holding  his  hat,  and  the  other  the 
opposite  wrist.  He  was  as  still  as  if  his  very  breathing 
were  too  loud. 

But  it  would  be  too  much  to  look  for  very  long  stand- 
ing-still or  silence  from  him  ;  and  soon,  indeed,  abruptly 
lurning  to  his  reverend  guide,  he  spoke  in  an  awkward 
whisper,  considsrably  above  his  breath,  which  he  had  kept 
down  so  carefully,  as  follows  :— 

"  Dono's  ye  ever  noticed  it,  about  sickness — "  when,— 
precipitated  by  an  ungainly  gesture  accompanying  his 
words, — a  shower  of  things  out  of  his  hat  dispersed  them- 
selves witliin  the  sickroom  and  about  the  floor  on  which 
the  company  stood.  The  accident  affected  every  member 
of  the  party,  even  those  wliose  backs  were  turned.  These 
last  rustled  a  little  :  nnd  a  sound  almost  like  a  giggle 
came  from  some  one  or  more,  the  most  impulsive.  Sister 
Theresa  crossed  herself,  as  soon  as  she  recovered  from 
the  first  shock  of  this  rude  and  most  unnecessary  inde- 
corum. The  priest  at  first  came  near  to  smiling,  uninten- 
tionally ;  but  instantly  visited  the  unsanctified  misadven- 
ture with  a  frown  that  gathered  over  the  still  lingering 
smile,  like  a  dark  cloud  above  tlie  streak  of  sunset-sky. 
The  short  word  "  bah  !  "  escaped  his  lips. 

The  author  of  all  this  commotion, — interrupted  in  his 
well-meant  speech,  glancing  round  the  company,  brushing 
up  one  side  of  his  hair  over  the  bald,  and  saying,  "  Do 


k^i,  (T„ 


JV    CALL  AT  A  NUNNERY. 


225 


tell !  wall,  don't  stir,"  all  at  the  same  instant,  almost,  and 
before  any  one  had  had  time  to  recover, — dove  forward 
after  the  most  remote  articles  of  his  scattered  property. 

In  doing  this  he  made  little  more  noise  than  a  cat,  and 
was  just  about  as  expeditious  in  his  motions,  following  a 
lead-pencil  to  one  side  of  the  chamber  and  a  penknife  to 
the  other,  not  leaving  behind  the  habit  of  his  nation,  even 
m  this  unexpected  visit;  but  drawing  near  and  casting 
4  glance,  in  passing,  at  a  colored  engraving  of  a  saint, 
IS  very  likely  he  would  have  looked  in  a  glass,  had  there 
been  one  in  the  place,  which  there  was  not. 

The  handkerchief  and  an  outlandish-looking  news- 
laper,  which  had  dropped  down  in  the  passage-way  and 
remained  there,  lay  where  they  had  fallen,  when  he  came 
out,  and  then  resum(;d  their  former  phice.  "  Hope  ye 
wun't  think  hard  o'  my  hat,"  he  whispered,  loudly,  by 
way  of  reconciling  matters,  "  't  don't  gen'lly  act  like  ihi^t. 
Hov/ever,  b'lieve  no  harm's  done.  Don't  let  me  keep 
you,  sir,  awaiting,  and  the  kdies." 

The  remainder  of  the  visit  was  soon  dispatched.  Father 
Nicholas  appearing  not  less  kind,  if  less  cordial  than  be- 
fore, and  saying, — after  a  brief  exhibition  of  the  adjoining 
room, — "  You  have  now  seen  the  whole,  sir,  and  T  hope 
you'll  remember  your  visit  with  pleasure.  I  told  you  at 
the  outset  that  you  were  treated  with  very  rare  con- 
sideration, because  I  didn't  believe  that  in  your  case  it 
would  be  thrown  away.  I  shall  be  happy  to  give  you 
any  further  information  which  may  be  in  my  power." 

"  Very  much  obleegod  to  you,  'm  sure,  sir.  'T's  done 
me  good.  Jest  what  I  like.  Come  and  see  for  m'self 
and  ben  treated  like  a  gentleman.  'F  't  'adn't  ben  for 
that — wall,  'accidents  will  occur,  you  know,'  's  the  fellah 
said  once,     '^yish  all  success  to  the  ladies,  adoin'  good 

15 


^:A 


% 


vi 


iff  ■.   f 


226 


THE  NEW   PRIEST. 


and  ril  jest  go  straight  to  the  other  priest,— that's  the 
Rev.  Mr.  Terence's  or  O'Toole'o,— and  do  a  little  busi- 
ness 'th  him,  'f  I  find  I  can." 

As  Father  Nicholas  and  his  guest  withdrew,  Sister 
Theresa  was  heard  saying,  "We  will  now  go  to  our 
office,  sisters,  and  we  have  something  to  make  up."  The 
machinery  of  the  establishment  (after  the  obstruction  had 
been  removed)  began  to  go  as  before.  We  go  with  the 
retiring  party  as  far  as  the  outside. 


li 


1 1 


'  1, 


01  HER  SUSPICIOUS   PERSONS. 


227 


It!  ! 


CHAPTER  XXV. 


THE   MAGISTRATE    DEALS    WITH    OTHER    SUSPICIOUS 

PERSONS. 

)HE  world  was  going  on  in  Peterport  also.  Public 
suspicion  had,  of  course,  repeatedly  touched 
Father  Debree,  but  had  never  been  able  to 
fasten  on  him.  One  or  two  overwise  bodies  undoubtedly 
thought  him  the  more  dangerous,  because  (as  they  said) 
"  he  was  so  deep,  and  made  people  think  he  was  harm- 
less ; "  but  almost  every  one  (with  Skipper  George)  ab- 
solutely discharged  him,  before  the  third  day.  To  have 
found  out  what  was  his  painful  and  mysterious  connection 
with  Mrs.  Barre,  would  have  been  a  great  deal  for  the 
public. — It  did  not  yet  appear. 

He  was  seldom  seen  in  the  harbor,  and  was  soon  little 
spoken  of;  the  fever  too,  in  Marchants'  Cove,  which 
killed  no  one,  ceased  to  occupy  men's  tongues,  or  the 
tongues  of  their  wives.  Mrs.  Barre's  sorrow  and  her 
mystery  were  left  to  silence,  while  steadily  the  general 
thought  busied  itself  with  following  the  lost  maiden. 

James  Urston,  it  was  said,  had  been  with  the  priests 
at  Bay-Harbor ;  but  it  was  also  said,  that  he  was  threat- 
ened with  excommunication,  or  some  great  penalty,  and 
public  opinion  naturally  sympathized  with  the  bereaved 
lo\  er  and  the  disaffected  Roman  Catholic,  (if  he  was  dis- 


m 


•   iii 


:i"-  '.iii 


i;'i:s'^ 


Ss    *'!!^l 


228 


THE  NEW   PRIEST, 


afTectod  ;) — the  public  eye  still  looked  darkly  at  Mrs.  Cal- 
loraii,  and  beyond. 

Mrs.  Calloran  herself  had  said, — very  truly, — that 
*'  there  were  other  old  women  in  Peterport,"  and  the  hands 
of  justice,  again  feeling  about,  grasped  Granny  Palasher 
and  held  her  to  an  examination.  Tiiey  were  to  have 
laid  hold  on  Mr.  Bangs,  (this  time,)  and  Ladford ;  but 
these  had  both  slipped  between,  like  other  little  men  of 
old  time,  between  those  of  another  giant.  Of  Ladford's 
movements  nothing  was  reported ;  but  of  the  American, 
William  Frank  had  this  to  say.  That  he  had  sent  some 
important  communication  to  the  vice-consul  of  his  coun- 
try, at  St.  John's,  and  had  left  the  harbor  for  parts  un- 
known. 

The  magistrate  made  little  out  of  the  Granny,  except 
that  her  name  was  properly  Ann  Pilchard,  and  that  the 
public  suffrage  was  with  her  when  she  asserted  that  she 
"  had  an  occupation  and  knowed  it  'most  so  good  as  some 
other  folks  did  theirs,  mubbe."  Having  in  the  course  of 
a  day  elicited  so  much,  he  adjourned  his  court. 

Awaking  from  the  sleep  which  had  setcled  down  upon 
a  mind  and  body  jaded  with  the  long  day's  and  night's 
work,  which  went  before  and  followed  the  last  adjourn- 
ment of  his  "  court,"  and  yet  another  full  day's  painful 
deliberation,  he  was  informed  by  his  servant,  that  there 
was  a  paper  on  the  front-door,  and  that  "  he "  (the 
paper)  "looked  mostly  like  a  print,  seemunly."  The 
color  rose  in  Mr.  Naughton's  cheeks,  and  his  fingers 
trembled  as  he  proceeded  to  examine  this  new  decoration 
of  his  house.     He  evidently  suspected  it. 

He  walked  leisurely  and  stopped  at  more  than  one 
thing  in  the  way,  and  when  he  got  out  of  doors,  looked 
up  at  the  sky  and  down  at  some  vegetation  on  which  he 


jcoration 


OTHER  SUSPICIOUS  PERSONS. 


229 


liad  expended  a  great  deal  of  manure,  before  approaching 
the  object  which  had  stimulated  the  curiosit}'^  of  his  maid. 
When  he  did  at  length  deliberately  turn  to  view  it,  he 
saw  a  huge  broadside  of  wrapping-paper,  bearing  the 
words  (in  charcoal),  "  the  FaytFul  megistrun." 

He  certainly  looked  fateful,  (as  the  poster  uninten- 
tionally called  him,)  when  he  had  read  this  thing. 

"  Ha !  "  said  he,  "  parties  may  burn  their  fingers,  if 
they  don't  look  out ; "  and  he  conspicuously, — that  all  the 
neighborhood  or  the  world  might  see  it, — tore  the  paper 
first  into  long  strips  and  then  into  little  bits,  which  he 
gave  by  instalments  to  the  winds.  He  then  walked  delib- 
erately up  and  down  in  front  of  his  house,  turning  his 
face,  (considerably  reddened  by  the  activity  of  his  mind,) 
frequently  to  the  road,  with  an  "  Hm ! "  as  if  to  show  the 
world  that  there  he  was,  unmoved,  and  ready  to  be  the 
mark  of  any  animadversion. 

"  Si  fractus  illabatur  orbis  (sedente  ipso,  sc,  in  cathedra), 
Impavidum  ferient  ruiiice.''^  * 

So  for  some  time  he  aired  himself,  before  going  in  to 
breakfast. 

That  the  impersonation  of  Justice  in  Peterport  was  not 
weary  of  its  efforts,  was  soon  made  manifest.  Gilpin, 
the  constable,  hinted  the  propriety  of  having  Mrs.  Cal- 
lorau'up  again,  and  giving  her  a  "  hauling-over." 

This  proposition  the  magistrate  disposed  of  summarily, 
by  a  legal  aphorism  :  "  A  person  can't  be  tried  twice  for 
the  same  offence,  Mr.  Gilpin,  according  to  English  law  ;  " 
and  he  forestalled  an  argument  over  which  the  constable's 
pye  was  twinkling,  and  which  he  was  just  making  up  his 
mouth  to  utter,  by  putting  into  that  officer's  hand  a  war- 
rant, and  saying  authoritatively, — 

*  If  tumbles  all  the  -world  to  wrack,  He  in  his  seat  will  sit  square  back, 
And  take  all,  fearless  :  Crack !  Whack ! !  Thwack ! ! !-  (Adapted.) 


I 


l:iH 


f  I 


n 


'r,^  ■' 


i;  m 


Mil 


M 


230 


THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


"You'll  see  that  Mrs.  Frank  is  brought  before  me 
with  all  diligence." 

The  constable's  eye  twinkled  as  much  as  e^er ;  and, 
puttiiij^;  the  writ  in  his  pocket,  before  he  went  forth  upon 
his  errand,  he  made  a  new  suggestion  : — 

"  She'll  never  be  able  to  stand  it,  sir,  will  she,  poor  old 
thing  ?  she's  had  a  good  deal  o'  worriment  over  this  al- 
ready, they  say." 

"  Justice  is  absolute,  Mr.  Gilpin ;  if  you  find  her  health 
impaired,  you  will  report  it.'" 

So  the  constable  went  about  his  business. 

Granny  Frank  was  at  the  time  upon  a  few  days'  visit 
to  her  grand-daughter,  Jesse  Barbury  Hill's  wife,  and 
thither  the  constable  proceeded,  to  subpoena  her,  or  rather 
fetch  her  with  him  to  the  magistrate. 

There  was  a  little  commotion  in  the  house  as  Gilpin 
came  to  it,  which  prevented  his  tap  at  the  door  from 
being  heard,  and  he  walked  in,  accordingly,  unbidden. 

A  child  or  two  were  playing  in  the  sitting-room ;  but 
all  the  older  members  of  the  family  had  drawn  together 
in  a  bedroom  at  the  side.  The  constable  came  silently 
across,  and  was  not  noticed ;  for  Jesse  and  his  wife,  and 
Isaac  Maffen  were  busy  about  a  bed,  in  which  the  shriv- 
elled and  exhausted  old  woman  lay,  heaving  long,  slow 
sighs  for  breath.  * 

"  Jes-se, — child — ,"  she  was  saying,  with  longer  than 
her  usual  intervals  between  the  syllables,  and  more  feebly 
than    usual, — "  un-der — my — rump  ! — heave — I — up, — I 


-wants — to- 


-go- 


-hijrh"- 


Jesse  Hill,  as  dutifully  as  a  child,  and  as  tenderly  as 
might  be,  did  her  bidding ;  and  raised  the  slight  body  up. 

"She's  ^owe/"said  Gilpin,  as  he  scanned  her  face; 
*  that's  her  last  word  in  this  life,  you  may  depend  !  " 


OTHER  SUSPICIOUS  PERSONS. 


231 


"  Do  'ee  think  so  ?  "  asked  Jesse ;  "  why,  she's  sca'ce 
got  through  wi'  talkun  !  '* 

"  Next  time  she  speaks  it  won't  be  here,*'  said  the  con 
stable  gravely. 

"  God  rest  her,  then  ! "  said  her  grandson-in-law ;  "  I'm 
glad  we  was  all  w'itun  upon  her  when  she  goed,  any- 
how." 

"  It's  good  one  trouble  for  nothing  was  saved  her !  '* 
said  the  constable. 

So  they  laid  her  down  again,  decently,  upon  the  bed, 
and  sent  for  the  different  members  of  the  family,  while 
the  constable  lingered,  without  mentioning  the  errand 
upon  which  he  had  come. 

"  What  have  you  got  here,  .Jesse  ?  "  said  he,  as  his  eye 
caught  sight  of  a  parcel  standing  on  the  mantle-shelf 

"  Mr.  Banks  give  it  to  I  to  bring  up,  for  un,  from  B'y- 
Harbor.     'E  said  'twas  *a  mighty  bundle,'  so  'e  said." 

"  Why,  it's  for  the  Parson,  man ;  why  didn't  you  deliver 
it?" 

"  He  on'y  asked  I  to  bring  it,"  said  the  trusty  deposi- 
tary ;  "  an'  so  I  kept  it,  tuU  'e'd  call,  'isself.  1  never 
knowed  what  it  was." 

"  Well,  bad  read  in'  '11  never  spoil  you,  Jesse.  How 
long  was  the  old  lady  sick  ?  " 

"  She  never  was  sick ;  not  that  we  knowed  of;  but  just 
visitun,  an'  layun  on  the  bed,  as  comfortable  as  could  be, 
tuU  just  a  few  minutes  sunce  ; — as  it  miglit  be,  two-three 
minutes  afore  you  comed  in." 

"  Yv^'ell,  she's  had  enough  of  if,  if  she  was  ready.  She 
might  have  had  too  much,  if  she'd  staid  longer.  Is  Naath 
home  ?  " 

"  No :  we'll  wait  the  funeral  tull  Monday,  I  suppose,  to 
give  un  a  chance  to  come  back." 


lii 


K-;-^ 


fj'i 


||)ii;. 


II   ! 


!  ■lii! 


1  Ji" 


*tf  tl  ^ 


THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


The  constable  took  his  leave,  and  went  to  make  hia 
return.     Jesse  went  too. 

Both  the  men  started  back,  and  made  a  reverential 
salutation,  as  they  met  Mrs.  Barre,  on  coming  into  the 
road.     Her  look  was  more  troubled  than  usual. 

"  It's  easier  partin'  a  gran'mother  than  it  is  a  husband 
or  a  child,"  said  the  constable,  shortly  after. 

"All  so,  Mr.  Gulpin,"  said  Jesse,  "  that's  a  clear  case  ; 
you've  got  to  part  they.  I  hard  Parson  Kingman's  wife 
say, '  death  is  an  alteration,  surely,  an'  can'  be  helped.' " 

There  were  some  loiterers  about  the  magistrate's  prem- 
ises ; — people  that  can  always  spare  time  for  public  affairs ; 
and  whom,  now,  the  mission  of  the  constable  had  stimu- 
lated to  strong  expectancy.  The  magistrate  was  im- 
mersed in  mental  and  manual  occupation:  reading  and 
writing. 

''  There  was  some  one  to  summons  her  before  I,  sir,'* 
said  Gilpin. 

"  How  do  you  mean  ?  "  asked  the  magistrate,  nervously ; 
for  though  he  got  along  very  well  with  plenty  of  sea- 
room,  the  prospect  of  a  collision  or  conflict  of  jurisdictions 
was  a  new  thing  to  him. 

"  She's  dead,"  said  the  constable. 

"  Dead  I  Why,  that  can't  be,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Naughton, 
"  she  was  alive  yesterday." 

"And  so  she  was  the  minute  she  died,  sir ;  but  she 
won't  be  again,  in  one  while,  unless  the  Day  of  Judgment 
comes." 

The  comparison,  so  strongly  drawn  by  the  Almighty 
between  His  might  and  the  Stipendiary's  "  absolute  jus- 
tice," affected  Mr.  Naughton  considerably. 

He  went  to  the  window,  (the  public  being  outside,)  and 
through  it  spoke, — 


OTHER  SUSPICIOUS   PERSONS. 


233 


"  I  am  given  to  understand,"  said  he,  "  that  Mrs.  Abi- 
gail Frank,  commonl)^  called  Old  Granny  Frank,  who 
had  been  summoned  as  a  witness,  is  dead.  I  shall, 
therefore,  prorogue  this  court,  as  is  customary,  until  after 
the  funeral.  Mr.  Gilpin,  this  warrant  is  dismissed;"  and 
he  solemnly  bowed  away  the  constable  and  a  few  of  the 
more  adventurous  neighbors  who  had  got  a  place  within. 

"  Good ! "  said  Gil{)in,  as  soon  as  they  were  in  the 
king's  highway ;  "  I  hope  the  next  thing,  he'll  hear  the 
Emperor  of  Egypt's  dead,  and  adjourn  for  a  twelve- 
month." 

The  people  dispersed,  (to  better  occupations,  perhaps,) 
and  Granny  Palasher  having  certified  herself  of  the  fact, 
from  Jesse,  commented  upon  it  as  many  another  old 
woman  has  commented  upon  a  like  case : — 

"  Poor  thing !  she  alw'ys  seemed  to  ail  o'  somethun, 
these  few  years  back  ;  but  I  do  wonder  what  'ave  atookt 
she,  at  last ! " 

From  the  magistrate's,  Gilpin  made  his  way  to  the 
Parson's. 

"  The  '  Spring-Bird  '  has  sailed,  sir,"  said  he ;  "  o'  Tues- 
day night,  Jesse  says ;  so  Cap'n  Nolesworth's  off." 

"  Is  he  ?  "  said  Mr.  Wellon.  "  I'm  sorry  he  couldn't 
have  staid  to  help  us  clear  this  up !  " 

The  "  little  mite  of  a  bundle,"  as  the  sender  had  desig- 
nated it,  proved,  when  developed,  to  be  a  quaint-looking 
letter  on  a  foolscap  sheet,  addressed  to  "  Mister  Wellon, 
the  English  episcopalian  minister  at  Peterport,  to  the 
kindness  of  Mister  Barbury,  with  Dispatch." 

The  clergyman,  liaving  read  it  with  varying  expressions 
in  his  face  of  surprise,  amusement,  and  interest,  handed 
it  to  the  constable,  saying, — 

"  You  seem  to  be  concerned  in  this." 


IS 


1 11  ,lil 


M  ll-'!i 


!  \iU\ 


t '  iHi 


23i 


THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


The  latter  took  it,  with  a  look  of  astonishment,  and 
having  prefaced  his  work  by  the  remark,  ''  Well,  that'a  a 
queer-looking  concern,  any  way,"  proceeded  to  read  aloud, 
in  a  subdued  voice,  and  here  and  there  with  dilHculty,  as 
follows : — 

"  Mister  Wellon,  Sir : — 

"  Thinking  you  may  be  aware  of  a  little  surcumstance 
that  happened  here,  and  knowing  your  concern  in  people's 
souls,  is  my  reason  for  writing,  to  let  you  know  whnt, 
maybe,  will  prove  interesting.  You  see  I  took  a  notion 
to  look  into  this  Holy  Roman  Religion,  a  might,  while  I's 
about  it,  and  not  having  any  thing  partiklar  to  do  till  fall 
business  commences.  I  think  best  to  inforai  friends  and 
all  concerned,  /  mai/  be  converted,  and  I  may  not :  sup- 
pose it  ell  be  according  to.  I  have  ben  in  one  of  those 
Nunneries,  ye  may  call  it.  Never  saw  any  thing  tlie 
kind  managed  better,  in  my  life.  Sister  Theresy  is  as 
genteel  a  lady  as  I  should  wish  to  see.  A  little  accident 
occurred  while  I's  holding  inspection,  as  you  may  say. 
My  hat,  you  may  have  taken  notice  to  it,"  ("  Well,  this  is 
a  pretty  fellow ! "  said  Gilpin,)  "  it  went  and  come  right 
out  of  my  hand,  away  into  the  middle  of  the  floor,  in  a 
room  where  they  had  a  young  lady  sick.  Most  every- 
body carries  a  few  notions  in  his  hat,  I  guess,  and  so  I 
had  a  pocket-handkerchief,  and  a  knife,  and  a  razor,  and 
a  comb,  and  what  not  ?  and  they  all  went  sescatter.  Pen- 
knife, one  of  your  Congress  knives,  present  from  honor- 
able Tieberius  Sesar  Thompson,  Member  Congress,  went 
away  off  under  a  picture  ;  see  it  was  "  Saint  Lucy,"  right 
opposite  the  bed ;  same  name  of  your  Miss  Barbury : 
pretty  well  executed,  I  sho'd  judge  ;  only  a  might  too  red 
in  the  face,  supposing  she  fasted  as  I  should  say  she  had 
ought  to,  if  she  was  a  Nun.      Lucky  I  didn't  wake  the 


ill 


OTHER   SUSPICIOUS   rKRSONS. 


235 


sick,  but,  most  likely,  she'd  had  medcine,  as  I  took  notice 
to  her  breatliinj]^,  riUher  heavy  and  dead.  Should  judge 
they  ke|)  her  ruther  covered  up.  All  I  could  see  was 
jest  an  atlom  of  her  face  and  a  mijjjht  of  black  hair :  should 
say  she  ought  to  have  fresh  air.  I  thouglit  of  the  short- 
ness and  uncertainty  of  human  life — seemed  to  be  about 
eighteen  nigh  as  1  could  judge;  but  Father  Nicholas, 
they  call  him,  that  showed  me  round,  seemed  to  feel  bad 
about  the  accedent,  and  1  come  away,  and  took  a  cour- 
teous leave. 

Sir,  I  needent  say  to  you  that  writing  about  religious 
experience  is  private  and  conlidential,  without  it's  Ji  fi'iend 
like  Mr.  Gilpin,  tlie  constable.  Shouldent  like  to  hurt 
the  feelings  of  the  old  gentleman,  that's  Father  O'Toole, 
who  is  willing  to  take  unbounded  pains  ateaching.  I  told 
him  if  he  ever  had  occasion  to  call  on  the  Governor  of 
Massachusetts,  to  mention  my  name,  and  say  Mr.  Bangs 
of  Needham  that  used  to  be.  Believing,  sir,  you  know 
how  to  act  about  correspondents  of  a  confedential  char- 
acter, I  remain.  Yours  truly,  and  to  command, 

Elnatiian  Bangs." 

"  Well ! "  exclaimed  Gilpin,  looking  up,  with  his  one 
eye  twinkling,  wdieu  h.c  had  finished  the  reading,  "  if  that 
isn't  a  letter  and  a  half! " 

"  These  Americans  have  strange  ways,'*  said  Mr. 
Wellon ;  "  but  do  you  notice  any  thing  particularly  in 
his  letter?" 

"About  the  sick  girl  ?  and  the  b^ack  hair  ?  and  about 
eighteen  years  old  ?  "  asked  Gilpin,  Tmtting  these  things 
together  with  a  directness  that  would  not  have  been  un- 
worthy of  a  policeman  of  abundant  practice  ;  "  yes,  sir ; 
and  '  St.  Lucy  ! '  How  should  that  happen  ?  Or  do  you 
think  Mr.  Bangs  put  that  in  ?  " 


2.10 


THE  NKVV  PUIKST. 


"  Oh,  i»o,**  HJiid  ]Mr.  Wcllon  ;  "  tliat'.s  just  wluit  tlicy  would 
do,  very  likt-ly,  if  tliey  wore  tryiri;x  to  Tuake  a  convrrt ; 
they'd  Iian^  up  a  portrait  of  hor  pntron-saint,  as  they  call 
it.  All  this  coiifirrns  our  suspicion.  Thank  God  it  comes 
just  in  time.  I  never  thouj^ht  of  the  American  making 
himself  so  useful." 

"Dropping  his  hnt ! "  .said  the  constable.  "If  that 
isn't  one  way  o^'  gittinjj;  into  a  place!  That  is  a  joke! 
•  Holy  Roman  lleligion  !  *  There's  a  convert  ibr  'em ! 
But  that  sick  girl " 

"  That's  a  pity ! "  said  the  clergyman,  thoughtfully, — tho 
constable  eyeing  him  curiously  the  while.  "  If  we  could 
use  his  evidence " 

"  I  take  it,  sir,  we  can  use  it  by  the  time  we  want  it." 

"  Ay ;  but  in  the  mean  time  this  poor  man  will  get  en- 
tangled, perhai)S,  beyond  help." 

The  constable  still  looked  curiously  and  inquiringly. 

"The  maid,  sir?  Lucy  Barbury?"  suggested  he,  by 
way  of  amendment  to  the  word  "  man,"  in  the  Parson's 
sentence. 

"  No  ;  I  was  thinking  of  this  American, — Mr.  Bangs." 

"  But  it  won't  do  hira  any  harm,  sir ;  will  it  ? "  asked 
Gilpin,  still  puzzled. 

The  clergyman  answered: — 

"  To  be  sure,  he  wasn't  a  churchman  before ;  but  I 
should  be  very  sorry,  nevertheless,  to  see  him  become  a 
papist.     If  he  should  see  this  plot,  it  might  cure  him." 

"  He  sees  it  fast  enough,  sir,  or  I'm  much  mistaken," 
said  the  constable. 

"  But,"  answered  Mr.  Wellon,  "  I  can't  think  he  under- 
stands the  whole  thing  ;  and  if  he  could  be  rescued " 

"  From  Father  O'Toole,  sir  ?  The  Yankee  '11  take  cai-e 
of  himself,  I'll  go  baih     We  needn't  trouble  ourselves 


m 


^£^ 


iit 


OTIIKU   SUSriCIOUS   I'KKSONS. 


2;{7 


about  saving  li!  n,  sir,  any  moro  than  a  fisli  from  drown- 
ing. If  lie  isn't  tip  to  any  of  'cm,  he's  no  Yankee.  It's 
my  opinion,  liicy'll  lind  it  slow  worlv  eonvcrlin;^  him." 

The  Parson  smiled  «5<)od-liMmor('dly,  as  his  solieitndo 
for  J\Ir.  lhin;L;s  was  blown  away.  "It's  strange  tiiat  he 
should  get  in  there,"  said  he. 

"They've  been  too  eurming,  and  not  cunning  enough," 
answered  the  constable.  "  They  thought  he'd  tell  every 
body  he'd  been  all  over  the  place,  and  people  would  think 
it  must  be  all  right,  if  they  wcu'en't  afraid  to  let  un  in. 
Fath(n-  Nicholas,  there,  thought  he  could  keep  un  safe 
enough  ;  btit  he  didn't  think  about  his  hat !  "  — 

So,  this  evening,  the  old  suspicion,  setting  towards  Bay- 
Ilarbor,  and  the  nuns  and  priests  there,  possessed  the 
Parson  and  his  council  more  strongly  than  it  had  done 
since  Lucy  Barbury  was  lost. 


:i||!'il 


It,     1 1 !  I  > 


h  i 


4  'I 


Ml 


ill'ir 


i»:i;  II:. ill!! 
will  MP. It 


238 


THE  NEW  PBIEST. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

MR.    BANGS    HAS    AN   INTERVIEW   WITH    THE    HEAD    OP 

THE   MISSION. 

)E  left  Mr.  Bangs  at  Bay-Harbor,  in  cliarge  of 
Father  Nicholas,  coming-  from  the  nunnery, 
which  he  had  just  inspected.  Under  the  same 
sacerdotal  guidance,  he  walked  towards  the  priests'  quar- 
ters. 

Tliey  passed  hito  the  hall.  Father  Nicholas  leading,  and 
awaiied,  next,  the  result  of  the  latter's  knocking  thrice 
upon  an  inner  door. 

The  word  "  Enter,"  surrounded,  so  to  speak,  by  a  sound 
of  bustle, — much  as  a  word  is  written  by  painters  in  a  sur- 
rounding of  cloud, — called  them  to  the  dignitary's  pres- 
ence. He  sat,  sedate,  in  his  wide  chair, — his  dress  care- 
fully arranged  in  his  style  of  state, — and  was  intent,  in 
studious  zeal,  upon  a  book.  Looking  up  gravely  from 
liis  work,  he  fidgeted  a  little,  trying  to  wear  a  calm,  high 
dignity,  in  waiting  for  an  explanation  of  the  visit, — 
(which,  by  the  way,  it  may  be  thought  he  understood 
beforehand,) — and  ended  with  a  kindly  bustle  of  bringing 
chili  rs. 

"  This  gentleman,  Reverend  Father  Terence,  is  an 
Anieri(!an,  des(;ended  from  an  eminent  stock  in  the  re- 
public  " 


MR.   BANGS  HAS  AN  INTERVIEW. 


231) 


HEAD    OF 


•s  m  a  sur- 


Mr.  Bang.^, — who  sat  with  his  right  ankle  resting  on 
his  left  knee,  his  chair  now  and  then  rearing  'inder  him, 
like  a  trained  horse,  and  coming  down  again  on  all  fours, 
— said,  meekly :  "  Oh,  some  of  'em  've  got  their  coa^s-'f- 
arms,  'n'  what  not ;  that's  beyond  me  ;  but  I  know  jest  as 
wall  who  my  gran'ther  \vas  as  can  be.  You  know,  I  told 
ye  about  the  deacon — Parsimmon  Tarbox — on  mother's 
side  ;  but,  on  father's  side,  they  were  Bjuigses  all  the 
way  up  to  Noah's  flood,  's  fur  's  I  know  ;  Jedidiah,  and 
Jelioshaphat,  and  Jeshimon,  and  Joshuy  and  what  not, 
— church-members  and  s'lectmen,  (some  of  'em,) — an'  so 
on,  all  down." 

"  Atavis  regihus  ;  they  are  all  kings  and  sovereigns  iu 
that  .favored  country," — ("  Cer-tin,"  said  Mr.  Bangs,) — 
"  and  he  professes  a  desire  to  be  acquainted  with  the 
Catiiolic  Faith,  Father  Terence,  and,  indeed,  a  readiness 
to  be  converted.  I  bring  him,  of  course,  to  yourself," — 
(the  dignitary  bowed,  with  as  smooth  and  steady  a  swing 
as  that  of  a  pendulum,  and  said  "  Of  coorse  !  ") — "  know- 
ing that  if  there  was  any  one  to  do  extraordinary  work, 
that  one  was  the  very  Reverend  Fati  ir  O'Toole  ; " — 
(again  a  smooth,  slow  bow  from  the  dignitary,  who  spoke 
thus  :) — 

"  And,  by  a  strange  forchuitous  accident,  what  should 
I  be  engaged  upon  at  this  identical,  present  mor.:>ent,  but 
a  very  tti'struse  work  upon  that  very  country !  It's  a 
rare  work,  too,  I'm  thinkin'.  I've  here  the  second  vol- 
ume, which  I  procured  with  great  difficul'iy  through 
Barney  Baine, — (did  ye  know  Barney  ?)  and  he  had  but 
the  one.  I'm  not  sure  is  there  another  copy  iv  it  ex- 
tanty 

"  You're  quite  recondite  in  the  authorities  you  consult. 
T  should  have  thounrht  that  credible  writers  on  that  coun- 


h^-^i 


n  u 


r  ■ 


W'     :i 


'!:■■ 


210 


THE  NKW  rKii':sr. 


try  coiiM  l»c  found  willi  loss  InniMo,  ;in<l  in  m  coniplcfG 
form." 

"Ay;  lvi(,  (I'yo  fioo?  it's  bnl  Hlll(i  (Ihm'vo  known  of 
writing  and  tho  like  o'  iIimI, — Ihoso  Anjciikyins, — unlil 
those:  lafe  y<^nts,  (ihe  n»osl  o'  (liitn,  iIimI  is.)  lieinfj;  all 
mostly  s.'ivaj^e  Ind^ins.  I  sn|>|H>se,  (willi  a  sniail  sprinklinji; 
of  iMiropyins  and  Irisli,  cerlainly.)  Some  o'  (him  took 
to  l(\arnini2:,  1  snp])o^<\  nalnrally,  for  th«>  n\an  hero's  jrot,  n 
name  of  liis  own  tiial  wonld  ptizzh^  a  Tom'hawk  himself, 
• — (that's  one  of  their  trihes,  (Vyr  know  ?  as  they  oall 
them.)  'Vo  ])o  sih'o,  the  most  of  it  seems  to  ho  in  plain 
Kniilish,  stH'elv  :  hut  th<>n,  d'y<'  see?  the  jiroat  l<>arnina; 
that's  Ikm'o,  nndoid)tedly,  all  in  the  orijiinal  ton^tu%"  said 
FatluM*  (V  rooh\  shnttinsr  the  hook. 

"Have  yo<i  mastered  the  *  original,'  then,  already,  in 
your  rotir«Mn(Mit,  and  wilhont  a  teaeh<M'?  What  a  fiixnro 
youM  have  mad(^  in  the  Saered  ('on;:;resration,  or  in  our 
Collep'  at  Komo,  to  Ix^  ^^nre  !  " 

Th*^  ]>ortly  ])(M*sonafz:<>  eompliment(>d  thns,  rose  np  to 
put  away  the  hook,  while  tlu^  yoim«i(>r  pn(>st,  with  a  pjravn 
eom'ti^y,  foUowoi'  him.  an<l,  askinii;  ])ermission  to  look  at 
the  learned  treatise,  seennMl  it,  wIumi  laid  down,  and  n^ad 
alond  *'  l)i«Mhioh  Kniek<Mhoeker,"  as  \ho  anthor's  name, 
and  added,  as  oonnnent,  "  What  a  Dnteh-sonnding  name 
it  is  !  " 

"  Yo  may  say  that  ;  and  ye'll  rememlxM*,  Ix^-the-hy,  tho 
Dnieh  has  nmeh  trad(^  with  th<^  lndi<'s  and  the  neiuhhor- 
im:  ]>arts,  and  has  had,  tho^e  many  years.  It's  to  ho 
feared  they've  been  teaehing  th  mi  their  own  religion,  too, 
mostly." 

The  other  incpiired  : — 

"  Do  yon  Ihid  this  writer  orthodox  ?  The  name  sounds 
as  if  it  o»ight,  fairly,  to  ho  found  in  the  Iiuh^x  :  '  Diedriehius 


Ml{.    HANCiS    HAS    AN    IN  IKIIVIKW 


211 


or  in  our 


Knit'UcrlxH'kor.    Sloiijuli  Niio\ji  York,  «[iiji('iim(iii('  lingua 
im|tr*'ssM.'  " 

"  Oh,  ITh  for  n'rcrcncc,  jusl,  llint  I  kiM'p  lln-in, — hooka 
o'  Ihat  kind!  Ii'm  a  h'nriiM  w«Mk, — il's  a  very  h'ariMl 
work,  this>,  flouhtlfss,  in  iia  way, — Imt  not  pound  in 
iiMi  ono  poinl.  Th(>y'n'  lo  stand  up  in  n  Hhrary,  and  it's 
not  too  oI'Ipu  I  hut  a  husy  uiati,  like  in^^srlf,  can  jrct  a  look 
Ml  ihpin.      It's  oidy  dipping;  info  it,  lliat  I'v(3  done,   juf»t  fo 


J-^< 


I  Mt  the  niiiriow  of  it.      Hut  \\v\o  is  our  «'X('«II«'nf  friend 


ready  lo  lluovv  Ixdiind   hini  nil  IIm'  Dutch  and  liidyaii  rc- 


iJLriou," — ("Ccr-liti,"  asscnicd  llio  American,) 
Inkc  up  Ihc  old  anncicut  fiiilh." 


an( 


1   to 


VV;dl,  I'm  looking  that  way,  to  s<m^  what  I  cmi   mako 


of   if, 


CXplMUHM 


I      th 


lUicrican. 


h 


s    conviction, 


uuicli  'h  any  thiufr,  fliMt  I  wunt,  I  nithcr  pjiicss.  'lUv.ni'H 
tluit  liynui, — I  do'no  flic  Jiatin  of  if, — (anyhow  it'n  seven 
hundcrd  forfy-sevcn  in  '  U(!vival  J{liii[)sodicM  ' :) — 

VViioii  I  cnii  lonvn  tlii'^  IhmiI  o'  clfty, 

Ami  strctcli  my  liitilts,  luid  sour  iiwiiy, 
AihI  hrcfitlio  tiio  upper  siir; 

'I'lmn  lot  tlm  world  go  nil  lo  sitmsli; 

I'll  lift  mv  Ih'miI  jiliove  the  crush, 
And  tiiko  Inst  liojd  by  juiiyor. 


mo;  name 


[lie  sounds 
)i<'drichius 


"  The  way  I'ikh'r 'I'erluIliM  'J'aylor  used  fo  jrivc  that  out 
!if  l^aslh.'un  ('amp-JMcMMin;^  *  woiiM  do  a  hotly  ^ood. 
'rii(>re  !  You  know,  he  w's  a  ion^  kind  of  a  slohsided 
chn|),  nu'  when'  h«^  conur  to  '  load  o'  cluy,'  he  wri^srled  his 
ihoulders,  you  se<',  so  fashion,"  (doin^i;  it  as  Ik;  sat,) 
"an'  pulled  Mn'  tu;j:j^ed  'f  his  coat,  lik«!  all  [)Osscsscd ;  hut 
when  he  got    to  'strefch  my  limi)s,  and  soar  awny,'  why 

*  'I'his  oxposltioti,  usod  by  Mr.  I'luif^s  fit  tlio  period  rif  our  stctry 
mny  give  iircliiiMtlogists  iin  uiiexpoctod  liiiit  as  to  the  ago  of  tin;  iifuiie 
and  the  tliiiirr. 

If, 


f 

If-  i  >' ' 
If  U; 

m 


>» 


^1 


212 


Ti!K    NKW    rUIKSr 


\\\o  mos(  T  oMu  oom|>Mro  i(  (o  wns, wnll,  Iio  up  'll>  llup 

unn,  *lh  llu^  book  in  it,  an'  ihon  ('oIIum',  an'  kiokcd  <lowii 
]»is  l<\u:s,  josl  '.s  if  lio  VMM  }»oin'  lo  s(i»'k  flu^  Iiy inn-hook 
away  np  (hroniih  soniow'or's,  an'  ^'o  rii»l\l  \ip  aOor  il. 
AVhy,  all  llio  «»l(l  wonuMi,  *nios(,  pn(  riii;hl  onl  lo  ^il  hold 
oC  luin  by  (ho  hools.  or  whal  no(,  sini»in'  '  (ilory!  '  josl  a« 
tiilht  "m  i1i(\v  <'onk!  stroloh. lhi(.  -a^  yon  say," — (no- 
body bnf  hinisoir  saitl  any  lhin;i,.) — "  ihis  ain'l  iho  «pios- 
tion  now.  Qntv^^lion  is  :  \Vha('s  aboni  the  shoiiosl  an' 
ipiiokcsl  way  o' ^illin^r  •><  (his  (\Mlh(tho  rchoion  ?  's  you 
may  say." 

Jn  Iho  prosonoo  ot'  ibis  aoli^('  ohMMilionisl.  l^'alhor  'Vvr- 
on»M>  looked,  lor  iho  nionhMil.  as  il"  iho  world  ihal  ln>  bo- 
lonjjod  lo  had  b(M>n  knocked  away  soiucmvIkmh'.  and  ho 
hinisoir  had  Ininbh^l  tlown  anionic:  slranuo  lhin<i;s  and 
people.  {){"  i'onrse  his  apparalns,  aro;nni(M»lalive.  was  as 
nsehvs  a^  a  batl»M'y  of  eannon  ai'ainsl  a.  iVesluM  or  oilier 
ineon<;riiily.  lb*  ahno^l  in-^linelively  j:;laneed  aronntl  al 
ihe  odd  \ohnn<^  oi'  Kniekerboeker's  herelieal  llishtry, 
whieh  lh(^  Holy  V'M\u'\'  {Sanrtissitnns  Xosfcr.)  has  pnl 
iij>on  ihe  prohibit«»ry  Index,  bill  wbit-li  he  had  had  in  hand, 
belon*  ihis  unusual  (Mu>ouuler. 

FalluM"  Nicholas,  lor  whal(>\er  eaus(\  adapled  hiinselC 
at  once  U>  IIk^  eharael(M'  of  the  man.  and  said,  with  ^ra\e 
ai^pri^'iation  of  tlu^  /VmcM'iean's  piM-lormanee,  (which  ha<l 
be(Mi  jiiNMMi  with  as  ihoronuli  7.0M  as  il"  he  had  had  a  sly 
lancv  lor  astonishiiii!;  tin'  old  priest.)  "  Thai  seems  to  lie 
to  the  lil'e.  Mr.  Uanii»;.  You  appropriate  l'>.e  reIi<vion  you 
belonij;  to  and  inak(>  il  your  own  :  and  il  you  once  lake 
(he  Irue  Tailh  fairly  in,  no  doubt  will  nalurali/.e  thai,  also. 
It's  just  the  ihiuir  lor  an  indcjieudenl  thinker." 

"  (tuess  1  should  ;  make  no  kind  o'  doubl  of  il  ;  and 
(h.'U's  tlu^  wav.    Y«»ur  folks  '11  find  il  onl  one  o"  lliese<la\s, 


li 

1 

il 

II 

i 

MH.   nAN({S    HAS    AN   IN  I  r,l{  VIIW 


2(;» 


niul  «lo  (KM'onlinir.  |  (rll  y«>  wIimI  i(  is:  Til  fnkf  ji  pn'lly 
sticirl  rliMp.  Mild  li(<'ll  li!i\r  lo  iiiiliiitloii  lii^  ^niliiHPM.  lo 
kclcli  our  roiil   ViiiiKcr^.       WIimI'm  (lie  iism  o'  ImIIum'   iiImmiI 


AMiikin     tiiiiiloiinvM  (»r  innn 


I  of  I 


loiiorn.  or   \v 


liiii 


yoii    limy 


i'mII  "cm,  lo  r<'||;iliM  llifil  lliiiik  any  lliiiijr  o'  lli(»  vnlin^  n'  liiiir. 
\\  liy,  lor',  i(>^'  ((MM»iisii|or  iIimI  llio  Almi^lily,  't  kiiowH  wIimI. 
11  ni.iirs  s(Mil  'h  u  iitli,  nlioiiM  HoJ  down  (o  llcil  s(»r(  o'  work  ! 
— "!'  looks  's  llioiioli  'i  wji'iTf  r(nisiHl(>nf  Ihni'l  i(,  imw  ?  '' 
"  Yon  s(>(',  l<'iillu'r  TcroiMM',  liow  llic  niic!iliioli(  niind 
ijoi^R   in    lli(>  Mfuno   pnfli  willi    tlio    licjif lioii,"   Hjiid   I'liflior 


Nichol.'IM,     Hol(>llllll 


\ 


\\ 


IK     IH 


tl 


M> 


nisi    tfii/niis    rimli'rp 


not 


/>(, 


ol    llio    irr<".'i 


t     l{ 


oiililtl    nilir 


"  Yo  Hoo  IIh'v  lif'v  lo  Ih«  ffiii^lif  Mild  rf'M'^oiifvl  down  lo 
it  (or  ffft  lo  il,  '1*1  snilM  In'Mor,)  It'loro  lliry  i'Mii  swulN'r 
wdiMl  ^•ol|  iiiMV  sMv  'm  IIic  Iriilli,  'n  IIimI  dr|»Mi  Inicnl  o' 
scicMicc.  ADcr  m  inMiTH  on<M»  iiiMdi^  up  lii-i  iiiiiid,  IImmi  'I'm 
no  odd-j  ;  jrivc  liiin  pnnkiii  Miid  l<dl  liiin  il's  ciislMid,  'n', 
'f  yi'  want  liiin  lo.  Ih'"1I  mw^mi"  Io'I,  mh'  <'iism  all  oiil-do«Mx, 
T  lliry  tn.'ikc  'ny  Itonrs  mImmiI  il  ;  wliy,  T  yon  c'n  only 
convcrl  'ciii,  yrr  'nH^d>'<'""'d  'mcricMiH  'II  iiiMkr  tin*  jL;r<Mil<<«l 
l(»o  — lliat  i^  rnllaiN  lor  ('Mlliolics,  ajniiii.  TlM-y'll  lio  jrsi, 
tln>  fnllalisi  lor  niiryfk'M,  'n'  iinycroM, 'n'  hmIiiIm,  an'  wlial  nol. 
Wliy,  lake  niP,  say.  Tic  a  lian'k'cliT  'rrosl  licic,"  (sd- 
lin<j:  flown  liis  lial,  and  iniinij  llironjrli  •!'♦'  molioiiH  willi  ITih 
liMiid-*,)  "Mtid  llicii  jcsl  iiiMkc  mc  think  'now  yon  can't 
K<'c,  Mild  I  ('Mil  ;  so  yon  jcsl,  nor.  wluit  I  scr,'  and  then  Idl 
inc  tlicro's  a  picture  'I.  j)ainlc(l  ilsfdl"  'n'    I   lake   il    I'r   la 


w 


n   |j:ospi 


lIcrcMhonIs  Mr.  O'Toolc  sccincd  to  have  loniid  his  I'cct 


a^ain,  aiK 


I   lo  k 


<now  wlicivi  lie  was,  and  he  joined  iiie  coii- 


I  III 


vcrsMli(Mi  with   an  asKiirMiice  t<»  tlu',  AincricMn  IIimI  he.  was 


t( 


well-plcased    lo   hear    him    talk    IIimI    way,  ami   that    ho 

*     llolt.    A.I',    I'.ll.        I'lllcHH  lll(!   Illldl     III'    Wdl'Iiy   of  lllf  clKlllllliDd. 


(t 


t  (If 


I'  ^ 


!;■     "'i 


It-      111 


1.  'la; 

m 


; 

y 

1     ; 

If 

il: 

! 

k 

11 

>L.^|( 

if 

i 


2J4 


THE   NEW   PRIKST. 


would  show  him  sis  much  as  he  couUl  roasoimbly  expect 
of  (lie  Hke  of  tluit." 

"  I  s'pose  I'm  'bout's  ignorant  o'  this  nunnery  business 
's  any  thing,  pooty  uigh ;  haven't  got  the  hang  of  it, 
yet " 

"  Indeed  you  needn't  be  bolherin'  yerself  about  these 
holy  houses  at  all,  for  it's  small  eoneern  ye'll  have  with 
them,  anny  way,  unless  ye've  a  sister  or  cousin,  or  the 
like  o'  that,  ye'd  want  to  devote  to  the  service  of  God  ; 
but  we'll  put  ye  into  the  direct  way  of  learning  all  the 
whole  order  and  system  of  the  Catholic  religion,  all  out, 

meself  will  discourse  ye,  and  Father  Nichohis,  here, 

he  that  was  here,  a  moment  since,  anny  way,  for  it's  not 

here  now  that  he  is, we'll  all  take  ye  in  hand,  and 

we'll  make  short  and  sure  work  of  ye,  if  ye're  ready  for 
it,"  and  Father  Terence  proceeded  to  lay  down  a  pro- 
grannne  for  the  impending  course  of  teaching. 

"  JNIe  good  sir,  ye'll  consider,  ye  know,  my  avycations, 
in  some  degree  ;  but  a  jue  pro|)ortion  of  me  time  sludl  be 
given,  doubtless,  to  the  important  work  ye're  pro[)osing. 
Yerself '11  mostly  give  yer  whole  time  to  it,  iv  course." 

During  this  speech  the  Reverend  Father  took  down  his 
pipe  from  his  mouth,  filled  and — after  a  good  deal  of 
exercise  with  a  flint  and  steel,  between  which  too  great 
familiarity  had  bred  a  mutual  contempt — lighted  it. 

"  Guess  I  c'd  git  ye  some  '  the  real  stuff,  'n  th'  way  o' 

t'bacca,  't  less  'n  cost  and  no  commission, but,  sir, 

'bout  this  religion-business, — when  sh'll  I  call?"  said  Mr. 
Bangs,  killing  two  birds  with  one  stone,  whether  he  aimed 
at  two  or  not. 

"Ye'll  just  come  every  day,  beginning  the  morrow— 
not  too  early,  ye  know,  be  rason  iv  the  church  juties. 
Yerself 'II  desire  an  hour  or  two  for  early  devotion  and 


mi.   BANGS  HAS  AN  INTERVIKW, 


21') 


ih\y  expect 

ry  business 
iJing  of  it, 

ibout  these 

have  Avilh 
sin,  or  the 
a  of  God  ; 
ng  all  tiie 
)n,  all  out, 

liere, 

for  it's  not 

hand,  and 
:  ready  fov 
\\n  a  pro- 
ivy  eat  ions, 
le  sluill  be 
proposing, 
ourse." 
V  down  his 
d  deal  of 

too  great 
I  it. 

th'  way  o' 
-  but,  sir, 
"  said  Mr. 

he  aimed 

morrow— 
•eh  juties. 
otion  and 


meditation,  and  will  practice  abstinence ;  takin'  yer  tea  or 
coffee,  and  bread  and  butt(U',  and  a  mors(;l  of  fish,  or  the 
like.  In  the  meanwhile  ye'll  put  yer  thoughts  upon  two 
things  chielly  :  ihci  first,  Will  yv!  submit  to  the  Vicar  of 
Christ,  that's  His  Holiness  the  Po[)e, — and  second.  Will 
ye  believe  as  the  Church  believes  ?  that's  the  anncient 
Church  that's  never  changed?  Ye'll  fuul  it  a  great  help, 
no  doubt,  if  ye  consider  that  rason  and  history  and  the 
Word  of  God  are  all  upon  the  one  side,  entirely,  and 
upon  the  other  just  nothing  at  all  but  private  o[)inion  and 
nonsense." 

Having  thus  given  a  salutary  direction  to  the  thoughts 
of  the  religious  inquirer,  the  Very  lleverend  Father 
ceased. 

"  Wall !"  exclaimed  Mr.  Bangs,  "if  Casty-Hivy " 

"  Ah  thin,  y'are  not  that  ignorant  o'  the  holy  Latin 
tongue  but  y'ave  got  a  bit  iv  it  at  the  tip  o'  yer  tooth  !  " 
said  the  Priest. 

"  Oh  !  Casty-Divy  ?  That's  Casty-Divy  Scienshy  Cook, 
't  used  t'  live — (does,  now,  fur's  1  know,) — -jest  'cross  lots 
f'm  our  house. — S'pose  't's  this  Nunnery,  much's  any 
thing,  made  me  think  'f  her.  Used  to  stick  'n  m'  crop, 
's  ye  may  say, — ye  know  birds  have  a  kind  'f  a  thing 
here,"  (pointing  to  the  place  and  going  on  like  a  lecturer,) 
*''s  I  said  b'fore,  dono  what  'tis  'n  Irish — that  is  Latin, — 
wall,  't's  what  ye  may  call  a  sAvallah — 'n  sometimes  the' 
undertake  to  git  someth'n  down,  't  wunt  go."  This  illus- 
tration from  comparative  anatomy,  he  was  giving  as  if  it 
were  quite  new  with  himself. 

Father  O'Toole  was  not  in  the  habit  of  interrupting, 
but  he  interrupted  here. 

"  Come,  man,"  said  he,  "  ye  shall  stretch  yer  legs  a  bit 
and  we'll  go  into  the  chapel  convenient,  and  it'll  help  on 


•  f!      1«M« 


tj    i 


MU 


!   !       1 


I    1;' 


i,    !i 


:!l;il 


J4»"' 


il   i:::l 


\'m 


■  >  '■ 


M^ 


n'"'!  '■• 


246 


TIIK  NEW  PRIEST. 


the  conversion,  it's  likely,  and  be  a  good  thing  to  mepelf, 
at  the  same  time,  being  at  the  beginning  of  an  affair  like 
the  present.  Ye'il  follow  me,  just,  and  do  what  ye  see 
me  be  doing." 

Down  went  the  reverend  gentleman,  as  they  entered 
the  sacred  door,  crossing  himself,  touching  himself  with 
Holy  Water,  and  going  through  a  prayer,  apparently,  but 
with  a  half-glance  towards  his  companion,  now  and  then, 
who  went  through  some  performances  of  his  own,  which 
bore  but  a  very  far-off  likenops  to  those  ot  his  prototype. 

"  Will  ye  have  the  kinclnesa  just  to  employ  yerself  in 
meditation?  or,  if  ye  please  to  go  out,  I'll  say  nothing 
against  it;  I've  some  sjicred  occupation,  here,  for  a  bit, 
and  I'll  join  ye  in  the  course  of  a  few  minutes,  it's 
likely,"  said  the  worthy  priest. 

Mr.  Bangs  accepted  the  latter  alternative,  with  the 
assurance,  "  Wall,  sir ;  jest  's  you  say.  'T's  indifferent 
to  me  ; "  and  having  occasion  to  look  in,  soon  after,  he 
saw  the  pricot  engaged  apparently  quite  in  earnest,  in 
devotion  before  the  altar. 

WheD  he  looked  in  again,  he  saw  two  figures  get  up, 
where  he  had  seen  but  one  go  down,  and  recognized,  in 
the  double,  Father  Nicholas. 

Mr.  O'Toole,  as  well  as  could  be  judged,  was  taken  by 
surprise  himself;  and  as  our  American  drew  in  again 
■within  the  chapel,  he  heard  the  last  words  of  a  short  con- 
versation which  had  already  taken  place  between  the 
priests,  while  they  came  forwrird  toward  ti)«  door.  Fr- 
ther  Nicholas  was  saying,  ■'  Your  wisdom  and  experience 
may  make  something  out  of  him  in  that  way,  which  I 
have  no  hope  to  give  any  efficien  .  help  in,  if  it  we'* 
needed.  I  see,  perhaps,  another  way  in  which  he  may 
be  useful." 


11 


rmi 


Ah 


i  V 


MH.   BANGS   HAS  AN   INTKRVIEW. 


247 


With  h  s  eye  fixed  upon  the  strange  neopliyte  that  was 
to  be,  he  finished  liis  sentence,  so  tluit  JVIr.  liangs  might 
have  begun  to  think  that  he  hiniselt' was  not  the  subject 
of  discourse. 

"  We  are  together  again,  it  seems,  Mr.  Bangs,"  he  con- 
tinued quietly,  in  the  same  tone  and  manner,  "  and  we 
meet  in  a  good  place,"  (crossing  himself,  and  saying  in  a 
low  voice,  as  to  another  inside  of  himself,  "  Tabernacula 
tua,  quam  dilecta.*  This  is  perhaps  your  first  visit  to  a 
place  like  this." 

"  Wall,  I  must  own  '  never  was  in  b't  one.  'Must  be 
a  first  time.  We  don't  have  all  these  fixin's  'n  Protes- 
tant meetin's  ;  now  th'r'  ain't  a  relic  in  the  whole  lot  of 
'era,  fm  Massachusetts  down  to  Mexico,  'thout  'ts  a  min- 
ister's relic',  'r  someb'dy's.f  They  git  to  heaven  as  well 
's  they  can  without  'em  ;  but  lor  !  there  ain't  'ny  com- 
parison. This's  one  of  those  cathedrals,  likely,  't  I've 
heard  about." 

"  We  have  handsomer  places  than  this,  certainly,  not 
a  few,  and  a  good  deal  larger,"  said  Father  Nicholas, 
smiling. 

"  Oh  !  Yes.  There's  Saint  Peter's  at  Rome  :— Le's 
see  ;  how  w's  it  that  money  'as  raised  ? — I've  heard. — 
However,  that's  a  pooty  sizeable  kind  of  a  church,  cer- 
tin.  Ye  never  heard  o'  th'  '  Old  South  *  at  Boston,  did 
ye  ?  'T  Artillery  'lections,  (that's  the  Ancient  'n'  Honor- 
able Artillery) — they  hev'  a  celebration  'n'  a  sermon 
and  what  not — preachin'  to  'era  to  shoot  the  enemy  'th 
sof  balls,  I  s'pose, — wall,  any  wpy,  that  house'll  hold  con- 
sid'ble  many  when't's  chock-full's  I've  seen  it,  jest  like 
huckleberries  in  a  dumpling,  where  you  can't  see  the 
dough  't  holds  'em  together.     The  way  they  make  'em's 

*  TJiy  tabernacles,  how  "bolovccl! 

t  Mr.  Bangs  seems  to  cOi)louncl  two  words. 


!^ii 


w 


l:lf 


218 


THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


this :  take  a  mess  o'  flour,  ami  make  it  into  a  kind  T  a 
batter,  or  whatever  you  may  call  it,  and  then  stir  in  your 
— wall,  that  ain't  exactly  what  I's  }j;oin'  to  say.  That  8aint 
Peter's  must  be  great.  You  see  tlui  Protestants  ain't 
likely  t'  stand  *ny  sort  o'  comparison  'n  the  way  'f 
raeet'n'-houses,  b'c'se  they  think  religion  ain't  s'  much  t* 
be  looked  at,  's  to  be  joined  in." 

"It's  refreshing  to  hear  your  hearty  descriptions,  Mr. 
Bangs,  though  your  abundant  information,  upon  points 
with  which  your  friends  are  not  always  familiar,  leads 
you  a  little  wide,  sometimes.  Did  you  talk  with  the  very 
Reverend  Father  O'Toole  about  the  houses  of  God?" 

"  Wall,  he  seemed  t'  fight  ruthcr  shy  of  'em,  I  thought. 
On'y  wish  those  fellahs  't  Peterport  c'd  see  all  I  saw  "— 

"  We  shall  arrange  to  send  any  messages  or  communi- 
cations that  you  may  desire,"  said  Father  Nicholas. 
"  Your  own  time  will  be  much  occui)ied  at  first.  I've  got 
a  pleasant  family  for  you  to  stay  in,  close  at  hand  here ; 
and  Father  Terence,  no  doubt,  will  arrange  hours,  and  so 
forth." 

Mr.  Bangs  had  got  into  a  business-like  arrangement, 
by  which  the  sun  of  inde[)endence  was  to  be  considerably 
shorn  of  his  beams.  He  took  it,  however,  very  genially, 
and  as  th"  priest  left  him  to  await  Father  Terence's  re- 
newed attention,  he  spread  a  blue  handkerchief,  doubled, 
on  the  ground,  and  taking  a  newspaper  out  of  his  hat,  sa*. 
down  to  read. 


ANOTIIKU    UKMC   I-'OUNM). 


211) 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 


n 


ANOTUICU    KELIC    FOUND. 


HE  bod  stood  in  the  little  room  at  Skipper 
Ci!oor;j;(!'s,  uncliiinujed  except  in  huviiig  been 
made  up  ;  and  so  all  other  thin;j;s,  there,  were  as 
the  maiden  left  them ;  nor  was  the  door  of  that  room 
shut. 

After  a  sickness  has  been  finished  in  a  death,  and  after 
the  burial  is  done,  those  who  are  left  miss  very  much  the 
round  of  duties  that  is  so  utterly  at  an  end.  They  start 
at  fancied  calls  ;  they  find  themselves  putting  tiieir  hands 
to  things  no  longer  needed  ;  they  lower  the  voice  ;  they 
listen  sometimes,  and  then  recollect  that  there  is  no  one 
now  whose  light  sleep  may  be  broken,  or  whose  throbbing 
head  may  thrill  at  a  slight  sound ;  there  is  none  now 
wliose  breathing  may  give  token  of  rest  from  pain,  or 
whose  faint  words  can  scarcely  wing  a  flight  in  the  still 
air. 

And  then  the  thought  of  earlier  hours,  and  happier, 
comes  up,  when  the  departed  one  had  the  same  home  and 
the  same  household  things  with  them,  and  shared  their 
joys  and  sorrows.  Now  it  is  not  so.  One  form — whose 
head  has  lain  upon  our  bosom,  whose  hair  our  fin- 
gers played  with,  whose  eyelids  we  have  kissed,  whose 
lips  have  found  our  cheeks,  whose  arms  have  held  us, 


2')0 


TIIK   NKVV   I'llIKST. 


wlios(«  liiinds  li.'ivc  (loiK!  so  niiiny  pretty  tli'm^j^s  or  playcMl 
us  siicli  sweet  trick.i  of  luerryliood — whos(!  look,  whose 
1jui;:;1i,  wIi()S(!  sleep,  whose  waking,  had  each  sueii  heaiity 
of  its  (twii — has  <j;oii(!  Iik(^  m()iMii)i<;  mist  melted  in  air, 
like  the  hluo  cloud  of  smoke  scattered  lbrcv(!r  ;  like  the 
word  spoken,  like  the  bubble  brokiMi. 

Skipper  ()eor;j:e  knew  nothini;  of  the  spt dilations  and 
suspicions  of  his  friends  and  nciijhbors,  and  of  their  infor- 
mation "gained.  TImy  knew  hitu  well  (Miou^h  never  to 
speak  of  these  to  him  ;  and  it  was  specially  enjoined  and 
urged  on  all  occasions,  by  the  Parson  and  constable, 
that  nothiuf!;  should  be  said  to  him  about  them.  His  wife 
heard  more — hoped  aiul  feai'cd  more,  no  doubt,  but  yet 
took  her  prevailin<:f  feclint;  from  the  stron^jj,  steady  char- 
acter of  her  hu.>band,  and  never  told  him  of  her  hopes 
and  fears. 

The  need  of  sorrowinu^  hearts  (as,  indeed,  men's  need 
at  all  times)  is  faith  in  God,  and  work  ;  this  they  both 
knew  and  acted  on  ;  yet  she  would  sometimes  sit  down 
quietly  to  weep,  and  he  would  sometimes  lean  against  the 
door-i)ost  of  the  little  room,  and  lose  himself  in  sad  mem- 
ories. 

During  this  time  of  planning  and  consultation  in  Peter- 
port,  and  searching  for  information,  another  memorial  of 
the  lost  girl  came  to  hand ;  such  evidence  as  it  contrib- 
uted was  from  an  unwished-for  quarter.  This  was  a  silk 
neck-kerchief,  taken  from  the  water  a  little  farther  down, 
toward  Castle- Hay  Point,  than  where  the  former  relic 
had  been  recovered. 

The  man  who  brought  it  said  that  he  had  seen  it  in 
passing  with  his  punt  along  that  shore,  as  it  clung  ^^  a 
rock,  and  was  tossed  up  and  down  with  the  wash.  The 
cloth  was  wet  with  brine,  and  torn  in  many  places  ;  but 


f  ■!■ 


fji  !■ 


It    I 


III 


ANUTllKU  KKLIC   FOUND. 


2'>\ 


some  old  fisluM-incn,  who  saw  nixl  liandlrd  it  after  it  had 
hi'cii  recoLrnizcd  as  liaviii^  hrl(»ii<j;('d  to  liiioy,  asserted 
without  hesitation  tlial  it  liad  iK'ver  iiec!!  a  weel^.  in  tlio 
water.  Its  fabric  was  sound  and  ^ood,  lli<»u^di  it  was  a 
{iood  deal  smeared  willi  sea-weed;  and  the  rents  must 
liavc  been  nnKh^  bel()re  it  had  ever  ;^one  into  the  deej). 

'Die  finder  sliowed  tiie  phiee  where  it  was  found  ;  and 
it  seemed  stran'ife  tliat  it  eoidd  have  been  (h'S(!ried  in  such 
a  |)laee,  unless  by  one  seareliin;jj.  So  reasoned  the  plain 
lishermen,  and  they  looked  with  much  suspicion  at  th(» 
tiling  (at  last)  bcM^ause  the  man,  thougii  In;  told  an  honest 
story  and  was  counted  an  honest  neigiibor,  was  a  Roman 
Catholic,  as  it  happened  ;  and  though  they  did  not  doubt 
ins  word,  they  "  considered,"  as  they  said,  that  "  he  might 
have  been  put  upon  it  unknowingly,"  to  keep  u|)  the  opin- 
ion tiiat  th(!  IMissing  was  drowned.  Tliey  said,  ''  her 
body  was  not  in  the  sea,  but  somewhere;  else." 

The  neighbors  consulted  whether  they  could  keep  the 
knowledge  of  this  new  discovery  from  Skipper  George, 
and  determined  at  least  to  try  it.  They  gave  the  ker- 
chief, therefore,  in  trust  to  the  Parson.  Tiic  news, 
however,  got  to  the  fatlu-r,  as  news  always  will,  and  the 
next  day  he  presented  himself,  with  his  recpiest : — 

"  VJ'  'ee  thinks  best  to  give  me  what  'ee've  got,  sir,  I'd 
be  thankful  over  it." 

lie  took  the  relic  in  his  hand,  wiped  off  the  tears  that 
fell  upon  it,  and  at  length,  handling  it  over,  said — 

"  Those  are  cruel,  grinding  teeth,  if  they  holes  were 
made  by  the  rocks." 

Nothing  could  b(;  more  expressive  than  what  he  said, 
and  his  way  of  saying  it,  and  saying  nothing  more.  The 
grinding  of  the  tender  body  of  the  innocent,  sweet  girl, 
upop  those  sharp  rocks ! 


II 


m  ■■) 


W  ^!» 


\i^ 


-*-W' 


2.V2 


TlIK  NEW   PRIEST. 


TluM'c  are  worse  teclli  in  ihe  vvjiter  ihan  those  of  the 
pharp  rocks: — Did  the  fatlier  think  of  those,  ua  another 
wouKl  think  of  th(>in,  iVoin  his  words  ?  Were  his  thoughts 
for  his  lost  chiUl  as  quick  as  other  men's  ? 

"  I  cannot  think  her  lost  yet,  Skipper  George,"  the 
I'astor  answereti,  saying  as  much  as  he  would  venture. 
The  father  still  held  the  kerciiief  under  his  eyes,  as  he 
said : — 

"  There  was  a  coat  of  many  colors  that  had  been 
on  a  dear  child,  brought  hoirie  to  his  fathcir,  and  'e 
thought  an  evil  beast  l»a«l  devoured  u:\ ;  but  the  lad  was 

n'  dead, thank  God  ! — I  don'  know  where  my  child 

is,  but  Ile've  rjt  her." 

He  looked  up  in  Mr.  Wellon's  face,  as  he  finished  this 
sentence,  and  it  \  us  like  the  clearing  off*  of  the  dark  sky, 
that  broad,  [)eaceti!l  look  of  his. 

He  folded  the  dotii  tenderly,  and  bestowed  it  in  his  inner 
jacket-pocket  {ind  departed.  He  had  now  two  recovered 
memorials  of  his  Lucy,  sinjc  her  loss. 

His  errand  was  up  the  harbor ;  and  as  he  passed  out 
of  the  drung  from  INIr.  Wellon's,  young  Urston,  who  was 
thin  and  pale,  but  had  tlirown  himself  into  hard  work  at 
Messrs.  AYorncr,  Grose  &  Co.'s,  met  him,  and  having 
respectfully  saluted  him,  walked  silently  at  his  side,  an- 
swering questions  only.  At  length  the  young  man  broke 
the  silence  for  himself. 

"  I  think  we  can  trace  her,  now,"  he  said,  hurriedly,  as 
if  he  thought  he  scarcely  had  a  right  to  speak  of  Lucy  to 
her  father.  Skij^per  George  turned  upon  him  an  eye 
mild  as  a  woman's,  r.nd  said, — 

"  James,  thou  doesn'  know,  yet,  what  an  old  father's 
heart  is.  See,  here's  an  old  hull  wi'  a  piece  knocked 
into  her  side  ;  arid  T've  laid  her  over  upon  the  t'other  tack, 


ANOTIIia;   KEMC   J-OIIND. 


2:)3 


and  after  a  bit  I'll  imihbc  g<!t  all  inoinlcd  up,  and  li;j;ht 
U!;ain,  uiid  then  I'll  j^o  about,  an'  never  fear  ;  but  ef  'eo 
keeps  her  on  the  broken  side,  James,  afore  we've  ])atelie(l 
lier  and  stanehed  her,  in  eoruf's  the  sea,  Jamcw,  and  she'll 
<;o  down,  heavy  and  solid,  afore  'ce  can  make  land.  1 
inus'  n't  think  o'  they  oneertjiin  thinj^s — "  His  eyes  looked 
forth,  as  he  spoke,  Oj)en  and  broad,  like  another  sky  ; — 
"  but  ef  'ee  've  any  thing,  go  to  the  Parcson,  lovie — our 
l*areson, — an'  'e'll  hear  it ;  "  and  so  James  Urston  spoke 
of  his  hope  no  more. 


1   !9 


t 


f'  i; 


!-!.! 


254 


THE  NEW   PlllEST. 


fl:  "SI 


f  -i   >.'. 


■■  '.;« 


!■':. 


U  ''A 


:4ff 


ii     if: 


'!|l|;|t'illl' 


m 


^m 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 


MR.  BANGS    A    NEOPHYTE. 


OW,  the  worthy  priest  of  Bay-Harbor,  having 
Mr.  Bangs  in  his  hands  to  be  converted,  felt,  or 
began  to  feel,  the  difficulties  of  that  relation.  To 
keep  np  dignity  and  authority,  to  convince  the  mind  and 
engage  the  heart  of  this  representative  of  the  great  Re- 
public, were  so  many  different  objects  in  one.  The  case 
was,  in  a  measure,  like  that  of  the  "  Angli  quasi  An- 
geli"*  standing  for  sale  in  the  market  of  Rome,  whose 
beauty  led  Pope  Gregory  the  Great  to  undertake  the 
Christianizinsr  of  their  nation.  This  individual  American 
WJ18  no  beauty,  certainly,  but  he  was  from  a  foreign  he- 
retical nation,  and  by  his  own  account,  scarce  any  of  his 
countrymen  knew  any  thing  of  the  true  faith.  Mr.  Bangs's 
account  was,  "  Th'  have  made  a  convert  'r  two.  S'pose 
ye' ve  seen  a  poor  f  'saken-lookin'  chickin,  pokin'  after  a  lot 
o'  pi — '  animals,  and  hangin'  on  to  'em,  fo'  company? 
Ye  want  somethin  a  little  mite  stronger."  Father  O'Toole 
was  convinced  that,  (as  Father  Nicholas  also  had  said,) 
the  opportunity  was  a  golden  one,  and  must  not  be  let  go. 
On  the  other  hand,  the  ecclesiastical  conibiitant,  finding 
himself  in  possession  of  su  *'i  a  prisoner,  who  had  been 
taken  "  nee  gladio,  nee  arcu,^^  (suo,)-\ — by  no  weapon  of 
his  own — and  was  as  multitudinous,  in  his  activity,  as  the 

*  Anc;lcs,  as  if  Anf]jels. 

1   Neither  by  s\v<inl  nor  by  bow  (of  his  own). 


Mli.   BANGS  A  NEOPHYTE. 


255 


3or,  having 
rted,  felt,  or 
lation.    To 

mind  and 

great  Re- 
The  case 

quasi  An- 
t)ine,  whose 
dertake  the 
l1  American 
foreign  he- 

any  of  his 
VIr.  Bangs's 
vo.  S'po.^e 
i'  .ifter  a  lot 

company? 
ler  O'Toole 
►  had  said,) 
)t  be  let  go. 
ant,  finding 
3  had  been 
weapon  of 
vity,  as  the 


3 


eorn))any  of  men  whom  Father  O'Toole's  countryman 
once  took  by  surrounding  them,  felt  the  dilUculty  of  main- 
taining the  autliority  and  dignity,  and,  at  tlie  same  time, 
convincing  the  head  and  persuading  the  heart,  as  was  to 
be  done,  according  to  the  progrannne  of  his  operations. 

Under  the  circumstances,  he  addressed  himself  to  his 
labor,  in  the  bravest  manner  possible. 

Mr.  Bangs,  whose  habits  and  principles  led  him  to  use 
time  as  it  went,  was  anxious  not  to  be  unoccupied  after 
entering  upon  the  work  of  religious  conversion,  and  the 
quiet  old  man  was  therefore  likely  to  be  stirred  up  and  in- 
stigated in  a  way  very  unusual  to  him,  and  which  must 
worry  him  somewhat,  and  flurry  him  a  good  deal,  and 
give  him  many  solicitudes  most  unaccustomed.  The  pro- 
posed convert,  finding  the  priest's  way  of  proceeding  not 
so  methodical  and  business-like  as  it  might  be,  and,  at  the 
same  time,  being  assured  of  his  simple  and  kindly  nature, 
whose  only  relief  was  in  its  weaknesses,  took  upon  himself 
to  propose  that  he  should  take  a  regular  lesson,  at  certain 
times  each  day,  or  at  such  times  and  as  often  as  was  con- 
venient to  his  instructor,  of  whom,  meantime,  he  managed 
to  l)orro\v  a  Douay  Bible. 

On  the  first  occasion  of  the  expected  convert's  appear- 
ance at  the  converter's  house,  the  next  morning  after 
making  the  arrangement,  the  latter  found,  at  the  very 
threshold,  a  reminder  of  the  solemn  work  begun,  and  of 
the  new  relations  existinij. 

The  knocking  at  the  door  was  answered,  after  some  de- 
lay, by  a  slow-moving  man — probably  fisherman — acting 
as  ])orter,  who,  opening  the  door  but  quarter-way,  stopp  d 
with  his  body  the  gap  through  whi(;li  Mr.  Bangs  was 
about  passing  along  witli  the  first  rays  of  light,  and  hav- 
ing, by  formal  question,  ascertained  from  the  visitor  that 


Ifl 


4 


' !  I 


Hi      II'       'I 


m  Hi: 


i  IMi  i 


256 


THE  NE-W   PRIEST. 


W! 


:l!hj;l 
:illfl  4,'/ 


",M,r 


he  wislied  to  see  the  very  Reverend  Father  O'Toole, 
first  showed  him  into  "  The  Library,"  with  some  awk- 
wardness and  much  gravity,  and  left  him  to  wait  until 
the  doorkeeper  had  found  out  whether  the  Fatlier  was  at 
home,  and  whether  he  was  disengaged. 

"  Tell  him,"  said  Mr.  Bangs — the  manner  and  matter 
confusing  the  mind  of  the  occasional  domestic — "  not  to 
put  himself  out  one  mite  on  my  account.  'F  he  hasn't 
prepared  'mself,  I  suppose  't  '11  keep."  The  speaker, 
while  saying  this,  combed  up  his  hair  from  each  side  to 
the  top  of  his  head,  with  a  small  implement  taken  from 
his  waistcoat-pocket,  and  seated  himself  with  legs  crossed 
and  foot  swinging,  opposite  the  door. 

On  receiving  the  announcement  that  Father  O'Toole 
expected  him  in  the  opposite  room,  Mr.  Bangs  rather  led 
than  followed  the  man  to  the  Reverend  Father's  presence. 
The  occupant  of  the  room  was  alone,  sitting  with  a  book 
in  his  hund,  himself  dressed  with  the  utmost  care  that  he 
ever  bestowed  on  the  adornment  of  his  person.  Thus  he 
sat  gravely  awaiting,  and  very  grave  and  dignified  was 
his  salutation  to  his  visitor. 

" '  Haven't  come  b'fore  ye're  ready,  I  hope,  Father 
O'Toole  ?  "  said  the  candidate  for  conversion,  unabashed, 
or,  at  any  rate,  not  remaining  abashed  by  the  formality. 
Then,  seating  himself  opposite  to  the  Priest,  with  his  hat 
beside  his  chair,  he  gave  that  gentleman  the  inspiriting 
intimation  : — 

"Now,  air,  I'm  ready  f'r  a  beginning,  and  you  can 
please  ja'self  'bout  goin'  at  it."  So  he  cast  his  eyes  to 
the  ground,  and  sat  as  demure  as  possible,  though  not 
without  a  restlessness  of  the  body,  which  was  the  normal 
state  of  that  macliine. 

The  ecclesiastic  fidgeted  in  his  dignity,  and  from  his 


IMR.  BANGS   A  NEOPHYTE. 


2.-)  7 


not  beginning  at  once  with  the  "  lesson  "  agreed  upon,  it 
miglit  be  thought  that  his  plans  were  somewhat  discon- 
certed. 

"  It's  a  solemn  and  difficult  work,  entirely,"  began  our 
priest,  when  he  did  begin  ;  "  a  very  solemn  and  very  ditfi- 
cult  work,  that  we're  entering  upon  the  extremity  of,  or 
the  borders  of."  At  this  point  he  stopped  and  recovered 
himself  hastily  with  the  question  :  "  Did  ever  ye  meet 
with  a  book  called  '  The  way  to  become  a  Catholic  ?  '  " 

"  'Tain't  the  same  as  '  Way  to  be  Happy,  by  one  o' 
Three  Fools,'  I  guess,  is  it  ?  '  Never  read  it ;  but 't  used 
to  have  a  picture,  'n  th'  bcginnin',  'f  a  woman  whippin' 
her  offspring.  I  alw's  said  'twa'n't  in  good  pr'portions  ; 
woman's  arm  's  too  long  for  her  figger.  Dono  's  ye  ever 
saw  it." 

This  little  ramble  of  his  disciple,  disconcerted  the 
teacher  again,  it  should  seem,  for  the  stream  of  instruction 
stopped,  and  he  began,  rather  nervously,  to  turn  the 
leaves  of  the  book  upon  his  lap.  Of  course  he  will  make 
a  new  assault.  This  he  does  as  follows — adapting  his 
method,  as  he  thought,  to  the  character  of  the  other's 
mind — "  Y'  are  aware  that  men  are  mortal ;  every  one 
knows  that." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  the  American,  heartily ;  "  '  All  men  are 
mortal.  Enumeration.  And^  's  the  copy-book  used  t' 
say  'n  I's  a  shaver." 

"  Sure,  then,  it's  easy  saying  that  some  sins  are  mortal, 
too.     Therefore — " 

"  Adam  fell  in — 

To  mortal  sin,"  said  Mr.  Bangs,  by  way  of  illustra- 
tion. "  'S  prepared  to  grant  that  proposition  b'fore  ye 
proved  it." 

"  Very  good,"  answered  the  reverend  reasoner,  warm- 

17 


I « 


I:      !| 


!;  !!ii'it:;i 


258 


THE  NRW   PRIEST. 


ing  Willi  succesM,  "  since  y'tire  prepared  to  grunt  what 
cainiot  be  denied,  ye'll  be  |)rejiiired,  doubtless,  by  the 
same  rule,  to  deny  what  cannot  be  granted  ?  " 

Jl'  llie  triuni[)hant  progress  of  his  argument,  in  its  for- 
mer steps,  was  due,  as  it  })robably  was,  to  a  happy  acci- 
dent, this  last  must  have  been  one  of  the  deliberate  pieces 
of  his  })lot,  as  he  had  thought  out  the  plan  of  it  before- 
hand. 

"  Wall,  dono  's  'ave  any  constitootional  objection  ! 
"  Grant 't  all  men  are  nortal,  'course  I  deny  't  the  greatest 
man  'n  the  world,  wJK^ther  't's  Tie-berius  Cajsar  'J'homp- 
son — that's  the  llon'able  Tieberius,  member  o'  Congress 
'n  District  I  hail  from,  or  Zabd'el  B.  Williams,  Chair- 
man o'  S'lectmen  o'  Neeilham,  or  the  Pope,  or  what  not, 
aiii't  mortal." 

The  solid  floating  bulk  of  Father  O'Toole's  argument 
was  not  broken  up  by  this  little  obstructive  illustration ; 
nor  was  it  turned  aside. 

"  The  Church  being  wan,"  he  continued,  "  sure,  y'ave 
a  right  to  believe  that  it's  never  been  corrupted." 

''  Wall,  Yankees  are  noways  slow  't  assertin'  their 
rights,  ye  know.  Fact  is,  they're  ruther  inclined — wall, 
they're  dreadful  t'nacious,  's  ye  may  say." 

"  Well,  then,  don't  ye  see,  if  the  Church  has  never 
been  corrnpt(Hl,  then  the  Pojie's  the  Vicar  of  Christ  ?  I 
think  ye'll  easy  see  that,"  urged  the  Priest,  drawing  his 
argument  close.  Not  being  familiar  with  the  tone  and 
dialect  of  Americans  of  Mr.  Bangs's  class,  he  very  likely 
did  not  readily  or  entirely  understand  him  ;  but  the  latter 
seemed  to  accept  the  arguments  urged  upon  him  cordially. 
This  was  Mr.  Bangs's  answer : — • 

"  AVall,  fact,  it  is  'bout 's  easy  reasonin'  's  ever  I  heard. 
'R'membcr  a  fullah  named  Tim ." 


1 


■It 


^^1 


;rant  what 
is,  by  the 

,  in  its  for- 

ai)py  acjci- 

rate  pieces 

it  before- 

objection  ! 
le  fjreatcst 
ir  'J'homp- 
'  Congress 
ms,  Chair- 
'  what  not, 


argument 
lustration ; 


sure,  y  ave 

rtin*  their 
lied — wall, 

has  never 
:^hrist?  I 
•awing  his 

tone  and 
^ery  likely 

the  latter 
L  cordially. 

T  I  heard. 


MR.  BANGS  A  NKOPIIYTE. 


259 


*'  That's  a  very  good  Irish  name,  then,"  said  the  Priest, 
who  was  in  excellent  spirits. 

"  Tinibuctoo  Meldrum,  's  name  was.  Wall,  's  I  w's 
saying,  we  used  to  argue  't  a  d(!batin'  s'clety  we  had,  out 
't  Need  ham,  and  he  proved  ye  covhluH  'xpect  'n/if/ht'n- 
ment  "n"'  civliziUion  from  colored  folks,  {)'ty  much  like 
this :  '  Don't  all  hist'ry  show  that  heathens  and  savigis 
wuship  idols  'n'  images,  and  b'lieve  'n  charms  'n'  am'lets, 
'n'  beads,  'n'  all  kinds  o'  blessed  things  ?  Then  1  say  it's 
as  clear  's   the  sun  'n  the  cano[)y,  't  ye  can't  educate  a 


nigger. 


"  Does  the  sun  be  in  a  canopy,  then,  in  Amcrikya  ?  " 
incpiircd  the  Priest,  with  a  zeal  for  science  that  woidd  be 
found,  no  doubt,  to  exist  generally  in  the  human  race,  if 
a  trial  vvmu'c  but  fairly  made,  "  and  what  sort  's  it,  then, 
clouds  ?  or  fire  ?  or  what  ?  " 

"  Wall,  sii-,  'taint  made  o'  silk  or  satin.  So  ye  think 
the  Church, — liiat's  the  Holy  Roman  Catholic  Church, 
'course, — hasn't  ben  c'rupted,  do  ye  ?  " 

"  Sure,  I  think  we  may  say  we've  proved  that  once,  well 
enough,  anny  way,"  said  the  Priest,  whose  easy  progress 
had  given  him  great  confidence,  even  with  a  strange  sub- 
ject, like  Mr.  Bangs. 

"  Wall,  ye've  ])roved  it  one  way,  fact.  'S'pose  we've 
got  to  grant  't's  ben  altered  a  mite  or  two,  'n  the  way  'f 
imi)rovin'  'ii'  growin'  better,  haven't  we  ?  'Strikes  me  we 
don't  hear  so  much  's  we  might,  'n  Script  ur,  'bout  the 
Holy  Father,  the  I'ojje  ;  and  Scriptur's  rtitlicr  mum  on 
subject  'f  Indulgences  and  Purgatory.  Dono's  't  any- 
Wiier's  recommends  usin'  graven  images  and  pictures  to 
help  devotion  ;  and  then  it's  kind  o'  backward — seems  to 
hang  tire — 'bout  wuship[)in'  Virgin  Mary ." 

Here  the  worthy  priest  began  to  prick  up  his  ears  a 


•I 


i 


VJ    «' 


I      •■! 


1  \'l.. 


2G0 


TIIK  NKW    PKIEST. 


little,  as  if  he  had  mistaken  liis  man  ;  but  he  had  not 
time  fairly  to  j^et  rid  of  liis  happy  state  of  satisfaction  in 
himself  and  his  convert,  befoi'e  he  was  reassured  by  the 
latter  going  on,  in  his  own  way,  to  a  more  satisfactory 
ending  than  his  sentence  had  promised.  The  ending  was 
thus  : — 

"  'S  you  say,  these  things  arc  all  real  patterns  o'  truth ; 
all  is,  1  leave  ;  to  ^ '  b*  dy  to  sny  whether  't  tiou't  seem 
's  if  tl  "y  diibf'  kwow  '&  much,  when  Scriptur  's  written, 
*s  they  do  n^  v.' 

"  Ye'll  allow,"  said  ths!  Priest,  trying  a  little  more  ar- 
gument, just  to  finish  the  thing  up,  "  God  has  more  ways 
than  wan,  mostly  ?  AVell,  then,  in  this  present  case,  th' 
other's  traddition,  and  it's  as  good  as  Scripture  itself;  do 
ye  see  that?  " 

"  'N'  then,  's  that  great  text,  here,  f '  Purgytory,  'n  the 
References, — Matthoo  Fifth,  Twenty-sixth, — why,  't's  as 
pat  's  butter.  I  guess,  to  this  day,  ye  don't  take  'em  out, 
t'il  somJidtfs  paid  the  utmost  fart]iui\  Come  t'  hitch  tra- 
dition on,  too,  'n'  ye  can  prove  'most  any  thing,  's  clear  's 
starch,  's  the  woman  said." 

"  All !  then,  I  was  fearful  of  ye,  a  while  ago,  that  ye 
might  have  got  some  o'  the  Protestant  notions  into  ye, 
that  they  talk  about  corruptions  ;  but  here's  something, 
then,  I'd  like  ye  to  consider,  just  by  way  of  exam- 
ple: 8upj)osing  ye  were  disposed  to  hold  an  argument, 
which  y'are  not,  ye'd  say  the  Church  was  pure  at  the 
beginnijig,  and  corrupt  after  ;  now  if  it  was  pure  at  the 
first,  and  corrupt  after,  what  way  was  it  those  corruptions 
came  in,  just  ?  Can  anny  Protestant  answer  that  question 
at  all  ? " 

The  position  in  wdiich  the  reverend  argucr  seemed  to 
feel  himself,  was  that  of  having  his  hold  fast  upon  his 


MU.   BANGS  A  NKOl'HYTE. 


2C1 


^e  had  not 
i.sfju'tion  in 
ired  by  the 
satisfactory 
ondiJig  was 

IS  o'  tnitli ; 
don't  seem 
'  's  written, 

'  more  ar- 

more  wjiys 

it  case,  th' 

itself;  do 

ory,  'n  the 
rhy,  't's  as 
ic  'em  out, 
hitch  tra- 
,  's  clear  's 

;o,  that  ye 
13  into  ye, 
something, 
of  exam- 
argumcint, 
re  at  the 
ire  at  the 
orruptions 
t  question 

leemcd  to 
upon  his 


convert,  and  being  able  to  deal  thoroughly  and  leisurely 
with  him,     Mr.  JiiMigs  answered — 

"  Way  X  heai'd  *hat  queslion,  put  b'  your  friend.  Fa- 
ther Nichol;  s,  there,  t'otJKU'  day,  'a  this:  ('t  had  a  tail  a 
little  mite  difterent — )  ^  If  iellyiou  was  pure  at  first,  'w* 
I) come  corrupted,  'musf  lave  ben  a  time  when  corruptions 
come.  Now  ■an  any  body  put  hisfinyer  on  the  time  when 
they  come  'i '  'Sti-uck  me  's  bein'  a  p'ty  'cute  question  'n 
I  heard  it." 

"  Ay,  that's  the  very  thing,  in  other  words  ;  it  was  th' 
othiU'  way,  then,  meself  was  giving  it  to  ye,  just  to  put  a 
bit  more  tbrc(i  in  it,"  answered  the  Priest. 

"'T  may  be  'nother  view  o'  the  same  thing,"  s-  *J  L-i 
pupil.  "  'Bout  's  much  lilce  \-  two  sides  'f  a  "  ml  Vir, 
there  'n  Charles  River  13ri{!ge,  fact." 

Whether  Mr.  Bangs  vas  or  was  not  aware,  ha»^  the 
two  sides  of  a  flounder,  which  ought  to  correspond,  are 
strangely  different, — one  being  white  and  the  other  black, 
one  having  two  eyes  and  the  other  none, — Father  Ter- 
ence accepted  the  illustration  triumphantly. 

"  Ay,  or  anny  where  else  ! "  said  he.  "  Can  anny 
man  living  tell  what  time  these  corruptions  came  in  they 
talk  so  much  about?  Not  wan  or  all  o'  them  can  do 
it?" 

"  Case  'n  point,"  said  Mr.  Bangs :  "  Casty  Divy  Sci- 
ensliy,  ye  know,  't  I  told  ye  'bout.  Father  O'Toole,  's 
blind  o'  one  eye,  (she's  pleggy  well  off,  though,  and  had  's 
many  sparks  's  a  cat  i'^  oold  weather, — 'fact,  they  joked 
me  'bout  her  once.)  Wall,  's  I's  sayin',  one  eye  's  blind 
's  a  beetle ;  'tw^a'n't  al'a's  so,  *t's  grown  so — ('t  must  be 
one  o'  these  beetles  th'  have  f  knockin'  in  wedges,  f  r 
insects  ain't  blind, — natch'l  hist'ry  'd  tell  'em  that ;)  wall, 
I  guess  Casty  Divy  'd  find  it  pleggy  hard  to  tell  when 


'■ 


i  ' 


it-. 


l!   !; 


h     't 


''1, 


1,     n 

t   I  i 


i 


M.r^ 


,li  :M 


Am 


l!IJ<uhi::if 


2()2 


TriK  NKW    I'UfKST. 


that  blindnoss  come  ;  tliat  is,  time  o'  day,  day  o'  th'  week, 
day  ()'  th'  month,  'n'  so  on." 

"  There  it  is,  now,"  sjud  the  Priest ;  "  she  can't  tell 
what  time  it  came;  and  can  amiy  wan  o'  them  tell  what 
time  these  eorruptions  came,  I'd  like  to  know." 

"  'F  I's  <;oiir  to  answer  (hat  'n  (he  alhrmative,  I  sh'd 
say  the's  few  men  e'd  keep  ifj)  'th  ye  'n  an  argument.  I 
s'j)ose  (he  way  ehanj^es  eoni'i  'bout,  's  p'(y  much  I'k'  this : 
say  ye've  got  a  Junk  o'  pure  ice,  in  water  'taint  altogether 
cN'Mii ;  wall,  bymhy  yc  come  to  give  a  look  at  it,  and 
half  'f  if,  or  two  (birds  'f  it  say,  's  gone  in(o  water;  't's 
m.uir  cb'.'uu'r  water,  l)ut  'taint  ice  any  more.  'T'd  puzzle 
the  old  i'ox  himself,  1  guess,  to  tell  when  that  b'gan  to 
come  'bout.  Or,  take  'n'  slew  the  ligger  right  round — 
here's  water,  sjiy,  and  ye  'xpos(^  it  (o  tenjpera(ure  o' 
frezin', — i bat's  i)2  Kabrenheit, — 'f  it's  a  little  mite  warm, 
't'll  be  all  the  better  f '  the  'xi)eriment, — shavin'-water  '11 
do; — wall,  go  'n'  take  a  look  't  fhdt,  after  a  sik-II,  'n'  ye'U 
find  'twunt  look  's  if  the  cold  'd  done  any  thin'  to  it;  but 
jest  stick  yer  linger,  or,  'f  ye  don't  want  (o  })ut  your  (in 
ger,  put  a  stick  in,  and  I  guess  ye'U  lind  it  all  cuslush  ; 
'f  '(aint,  I've  misst  a  figger,  that's  all.'* 

How  this  illustration  supported  (he  "argument"  of  the 
worthy  converter,  it  was  not  easy  for  Father  O'Toole  to 
see,  and  he  answered  as  follows — rather  kindly  passing 
by  it,  as  the  work  of  an  obtuse  but  wel'-ijitentioned  mind, 
than  rebuking  it  as  the  suggestion  of  a  hostile  one: — 

"It's  a  very  disngree'ble  and  tiidious  i)rocess,  (hen,  (hat 
melting  .'uul  freezing;  and  it's  not  oftcMi  1  tried  it.  I  [U'c- 
fer  having  my  shaving-watter  wjirm,  towards  having  it 
cold,  the  wny  ye  speak  of  I'll  be  going  on,  now,  to  give 
ye  instruction  in  a  few  points  o'  (he  Catholic  Faith.  The 
Pope's  th'  entire  head  o'  Christendom — that's   (aken  for 


o'  th'  week, 

0  ejin't  tell 
n  tell  what 

Uive,  I  sli'd 

ufiirncnt.     I 

!h  I'k'  tiii.s: 

i  jiUo^^etlier 

at  if,  and 

water;  't's 

'TVI  puzzle 

it  b';^an  to 

lit  romul — 

)erature  o' 

iiite  wann, 

n'-water  '11 

("li,  'ii'  ye'll 

to  it;  but 

your  till 

1  cuslush  ; 

nt "  of  the 
)'Toole  to 
\y  passing 
)MO(l  mind, 
)iie : — 
,  then,  that 
t.  I  pre- 
liavini^  it 
\v,  to  ^ive 
lith.  The 
taken  for 


Ml!.    RAXC.S    A    NEOPTTYTK. 

^ 

2g:\ 

granted  ;  T  think  ye  were  satisfied  with  the  proof 

I  gave 

ye  on  (hat  point." 

"Oh,  yes,  Father  O'Toole,  'don't  n('e<l  'ny  /non 

proof. 

T's  only  'stonishin'  t'  my  mind,  t'  find  a  man  I'k' 

Father 

Debree,  there,  nkickin'  over  Ih'  traces,  'th  all  ffht.t 

proof." 

'4 


An'  what  traces  is  he  kickinf]f  over,  then?"  in(piired 
the  l*riest.  "  I  didn't  hear  of  his  kiekinj;  over  anny 
tliin;^-."  The  lesson  was  suspended,  and  the  book  wan 
(inadvertently)  slnit. 

"  Wall,  he's  a  l>l<';2:^y  smart  fidlah,  b'  all  aceoimts. 
'Didn't  know  b't  what  iie'd  p;ot  a  little  mit(^  ajj^ee  'pon 
some  points.  'Glad  to  hear  he's  all  rij^ht.  'S'pose  'twas 
only  't  he  j^ot  ruth(;r  put  out 'th  the  Prot'stants  f  niakin' 
such  a  fuss,  'n'  'eusing  the   Cath'lics  o'  earryin'  off  Miss 


l^arl 


)( 


'rry,  there 


n 


key  say 


>!.» 


t's  t'other 


way. 


"  And  who's  earri(Ml  her  off,  then  ? "  asked  Father 
O'Toole,  with  some  warmth. 

"  /  sh'd  like  to  see  'em  prove  't  she  is  can-ied  off," 
said  Mr.  lijums. 


J/-1 


Gue-^s  'f 'twas  Father  Nicholas  rnan- 
nged  it,  'I'll  take  more  gum[)shion  'n  tJicijre  got,  to  lind  't 
out." 

"And  what's  about  Father  Nicholas?"  asked  the 
worthy  old  Priest. 

"  Wall,  'f 'twan't  f 'r  his  bein'  under  you,  'gne<s  folks  'd 
say  he'd  had  his  finger  *•!  it;  but  how  'd  he  go  'ii'  do 
any  thing  'thout  your  tellin'  him?  'n'  nobody  'd  think  o' 
suspedin'  you,  Father  O'Toole.  B't 's  you's  say  in,  'bout 
those  sacrymunts ." 

The  good  Priest  was  discomposed,  and  had  lost  his 
place  in  the  book.  The  American's  assurance  of  the 
general  confidence  in  his  supremacy  over  his  assistant, 
may  have  lielped  to  restore  his  equanimity.  Presently, 
in  his  good-natured  way,  he  began  again  : — 


H 


f*"" 


2(1  [ 


TIIK  NKW   PRIKST. 


I' I 


»» 


,1  ,,■ 
i  ,'  ■ 


mr 


''li 


.!i::'fi 


'i,::,: 


"Well,  then,  there  arc  .seven  Sacraments.  Ycj'vc  been 
tanp^ht  two,  I  suppose." 

♦''J)on't  uiulcrtake  to  detcrniine  that  point,  how  many 
we  had.  Seven  's  a  j^ood  number  for  yon  to  have,  and  I 
pnesa  ye  can  prove  it  'h  well  'h  any  thing  else.  Sh'd  like 
to  have  the  proof." 

"  Those  Protestants  want  the  proof  from  IToly  Scrip- 
ture, mostly.  We'll  go  to  the  Holy  Scripture,  now.  First, 
TIow  many  days  was  it  the  Almighty  God  creattid  the 
heavens  and  the  earth?" 

"  Seven.  That  does  come  pleggy  near,  fact,"  snid  Mr. 
Bangs. 

"  Ah  !  and  isn't  it  exortly,  then,  it  is  ?  What's  the  dif- 
ference betwixt  seven  and  seven  ?  AVell,  then,  yon  see 
it  in  the  days  o'  the  week  itscdf.  Seven  's  a  sacred  num- 
ber. Seven  Orders  there  are,  and  seven  Sacraments,  the 
same  wav  ;  is  that  clear  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,  that's  's  clear  's  glass  in  *n  'clipse  o'  the  sun, 
's  the  man  said." 

"  Then,  Order,  Baptism,  Confirmation,  Eucharist,  Pen- 
ance, Extreme  Unction,  IMatrimony  's  seven.  Baptism 
gives  righteousness,  and  faith  and  the  like  ;  and  Con- 
firmation strengthens  all,  again  ;  and  then  the  Holy  Eu- 
charist " 

"  That's  what  yc  have  for  the  Lord  s  Supper,  I  s'pose. 
JMass,  I  guess  ye  call  it,"  said  Mr.  Bangs. 

"  Indeed,  y'are  very  right.  It's  the  Unbloody  Sacrifice, 
also.  Ye've  heard  some  o'  those  things  the  Protestants 
speak  against  the  truth,  about  transubstantiation ;  but 
when  ye  think,  once,  isn't  God  ahnigbty  ?  I  think-  the 
like  of  you, — a  man  that's  in  the  right  way, — wouldn't 
find  any  diificulty  at  all,  in  that.  lie  says,  '  Thh  is  my 
Body, — hoc  est  corpus  mcum,^  literally ;  and  it  must  be, 
literallv,  his  bodv." 


MU.   HAN(JS   A   NKOPIIYTK. 


2(5.1 


'"  T  wnnt  to  know  tlw  wliolc  o'  tliat,"  said  tlio  American 
"T  licanl  two  f'lillalis  armilii*;  t'ollicr  day,  Catliolu!  and 
Protestant.  Catholic  said  p'ty  nnicli  's  you'v(!  said,  jii>t 
now,  Latin  (T'tis  Latin)  'n' all  ;  'n'  then  tin?  other  man 
said,  'Look  ahcrc  ;  when  tlu;  J.ord  f'ns'  said  that.  He  had 
His  body  on  Him  ;  now  the  bread,  't  H«!  said  'tof,  wa'i/t 
a  |)iec(;  o'  that  liody  ;  'n'  if  't  wa'n't,  then  't  wa'n't  His 
literal  body, — ('f  that's  what  yc  cull  it.) — That's  what 
the  man  said." 

"And  do  yon  thiidc,  was  be  the  first  man  ever  said 
that  ?  no,  nor  won't  be  the  last  aytber,  so  lon;^  as  the 
Devil  's  in  the  world.  That's  what  I'm  sayinpr ;  ye  can 
answer  that  this  way  :  '  God's  word  is  trne,  and  llimsfdf 's 
almi<i;hfy,  and  so,  where's  the,  tronble  of  Him  makin;^  it 
what  He  says?'  Doesn't  He  make  all  things?  and  how 
does  lie  make  them?  Isn't  it  by  His  word?"  This 
was  said  with  real  solenniity  and  dignity. 

"  That's  whjit  I  want,"  said  jMr.  Bangs.  "  I  want  a 
real  good  answer-,  'n  case  I  meet  him  again.  He'll  s.ay 
't's  'genst  the  senses  " 

"And  are  the  senses  to  be  trusted  in  a  miracde,  I'd 
like  to  know?"  inquired  the  Priest,  with  great  animation 
and  spirit. 

"  "Wh'  /  take  it,  the  senses  'r'  the  only  things  't  is  a 
mirycle  to, — that  is,  't's  what  the  man  \\  say,"  said  INIr. 
Bangs  ;  "  he'd  say  't's  meant  for  the  senses,  I'k'  the  wine 
at  the  marriage,  there  " 

"  I'm  think  ng  its  more  than  once  you're  speaking  with 
that  man  ;  but  i>n't  it  the  greater  faith  to  believe  against 
every  sense  and  all  senses  ?  "  asked  the  Priest,  putting  a 
deep  question. 

"  Wall,  that's  a  home-thrust,  's  ye  may  say.  Don' 
l)'liev(!  the  fuUuh  'd  answer  that,  'f  he  sh'd  try  t'll  's  heaci 
I'orne  off." 


266 


THE  NEW  rRIF'=!T. 


"And  'twas  with  the  Scripture,  I  did  it,  too,  that 
they're  always  crying  out  for,"  said  the  Priest,  compla- 
cently. 

"  Wall,  the's  a  good  many  fellahs  take  'n'  go  by  Scrip- 
ture, one  way  'r  'nother.  Th'r'  ain't  one  of  'em  't  takes 
th'  ben'iit  o'  th'  'nsolvent  Act,  't  don't  git  a  good  house  'n* 
property  f*  life  ; — 'cordin*  to  Scripcher  'bout  ^failirC  'n* 
f/iU'in'  int'  everlasfin''  habitations,^  s'pose  they'd  say. 
The's  a  man  wanted  t'  git  a  lot  o'  money  t'  put  up  s'm' 
buildins, — great  pr'fessor,  too, — took  'n'  borrowed  all 
'round,  'n'  then  he  ftiiled,  f 'r  ever-so-many  tliousand  dol- 
lars, (guess  'twas  two  hunderd  thousand,)  'n',  come  t'  look 
into  it,  he  hadn't  got  'ny  money  to  pay,  'n'  one  mortgage 
piled  atop  'f  'nother,  'n'  no  doin'  any  thing, — 'said  the 
buildins  were  'n  ornament  t'  th'  town ;  and  he'd  gone  on 
'n  faith,  'n'  he  didn't  know  'ny  better,  'n'  what-not, — knoo 
'nough  not  to  lose  any  thing  himself,  though  ; — wall,  a 
friend  'f  his,  when  the'  come  to  see  nobody  'd  git  any 
thing,  says  to  him,  '  Look-a-here !  'Thought  you's  a 
pr'fessor  ;  don't  the  Bible  say.  Owe  no  man  any  thing  ? ' 
So  says  he,  '  I  do7i't  owe  any  man  ;  'took  'n'  borrowed  't 
all  o'  widows  'n'  orphans.' — He  wanted  it  set  down  on 
his  head-stone,  't  he  w's  'provideniial  instr'ment  f '  puttin' 
up  those  buildins." 

"  See  the  badness  o'  private  judgment,  now,  tow'rds 
having  the  judgment  o'  the  Church  !  "  said  Father 
O'Toole. 

"  Wall,  that  kind  o'  private  judgment  ain't  wuth  much, 
I  guess.  Common  sense  ain't  prii^afe  j adgment  ;  'fact,  't's 
the  common  judgment  o'  the  Whole.  'Guess  private 
judgment  's  'bout  's  good  's  any,  'f  't  sticks  to  common 
pense.  Clmrch  wouldn't  be  much,  'thout  tl;  ,  I  gues^. — 
's  I  was  sayin', — 'bout  that  text,  there,  '  My  Body  ; '  'taint 


MR.  BANGS  A  NEOPHYTE. 


267 


the  look,  no'  the  smell,  no'  the  taste,  no'  the  feel,  no'  the 
heft ;  but  't's  it. 

"'S  a  woman  'n  our  town, — ('tamt  the  man,  this  time,) 
— name  's  Pegjxy  Mansur, — 't  any  rate  't's  what  th'  usot 
to  call  her, — guod-natui'ed,  poor,  shiftless  soul, — never  did 
'nj  hann  ;  uset  t'  take  'n  everhistin'  siiijht  o'  snuff, — 
Mac — guess  'twas  Scotch  snuff,  come  to  think  ; — wall, 
she  b'lieved  p'ty  much  's  this  Bible  says,  here."  (taking 
his  Douay  out  of  his  hat.)  •'  'bout  Peter,  'n  Matfhew,  six- 
teenth, eiffhteenfJi,  'w  a  note  ^t  the  hottum,  't  says  'same  's 
if  He'd  said,  'n  English, '  lliou  art  a  rock ; '  on'y  she  went 
on  'n'  b'lieved  't  Peter  Wds  a  rock,  cause  tiie  Lord  said 
so,  'n'  He's  almighty.  A  fullah  said  to  her,  '  Look  a-here  ; 
do  you  mean  to  say  that  they  coidd  'a'  set  to  work  on  him 
'n'  hammered  'n'  ha(;k(Hl  'n'  what  not,  and  made  ))art  'f  a 
meetin'-house  out  of  him  ? '  '  Wiiy,  no,  I  guess  I  don't,' 
s's  she.  'I  don't  mean  't  '  •  'ooked  so,  'r'  acted  so;  but 
I  mean  't  he  wiis  so.'     '  \>  j'l,*  s's  the  man  " 

"  I  thought  I  hard  ye  saying  it  wasn't  the  man  it  was, 
this  time,"  interposed  the  Priest,  as  the  familiar  sound 
occurred  in  Mr.  Ban*  s's  story. 

The  interrupted  story-teller  smiled  and  knit  his  brows 
slightly  closer,  and  looking  still  to  the  left  of  the  object  to 
whom  he  addressed  himself,  explained  : — 

"  Oh  !  21ds  's  away  out  'n  Mass'chusetts,  'n  the  States, 
this  was.  Wall,  they  spoke  up,  'n'  says  to  her,  s'd  they, 
'  Why,  look  a-here,  aunty,  Wus't  his  skin,  't  was  rock  ? ' 
so  s's  she,  '  I  guess  not.'  '  Wall,  wus't  his  flesh  ? '  '  Guess 
not,'  s's  she.  '  Wus't  his  blood  ?  '  '  Ruther  guess  not,' 
s's  she.  '  Wus't  his  cords  ? '  '  Guess  not.'  '  Wall,  wus't 
his  stomuch  ? '  '  Guess  not.'  '  Wus't  his  brains  ?  '  '  Guess 
not.'  Finally,  she  guessed  't  wa'n't  's  eyes,  nor  's  ears,  nor 
*s  nose,  'n  I  dono  what  ail;  and  finally  they  come  to  ask 


m^ 


■  I-} 


2G8 


THE  NEW   PRIEST. 


li  • 

m'    U  •■ 
Wii    \1  : 


^ 


*f  'twas  his  bones,  'n'  she  didn't  know  but  't  might  be  's 
bones.  But  s's  they,  '  Aunty,  bones  ain't  a  man,  and  't 
looks  I'k'  pleggy  small  p'taters,  to  come  down  t'  that.  You 
said  the  hull  man's  rock,  when  ye  b'gan  'th  him.  '  Wall,'  s's 
she,  '  I  say  so,  now.'  '  Then  you  don't  say  't  's  his  bones 
more  'n  the  rest-part  'f  him  ?  *  '  No,  I  don't,'  s's  she. 
'  Wall,'  s's  they,  '  Look  a-here,  if  twa'n't  'ny  part  'f  him, 
't  wus  rock,  'n'  you  say  th'  man  's  rock,  what  2vus  the'  o' 
rock  'bout  th'  man  ? '  '  Why,  't's  the  man  himself,' 
s's  she." 

"  Wall,  I  tell  ye.  Father  OToole,  the'  wa'n't  one  o'  the 
whole  boodle  'f  'era  c'd  answer  that ;  'n  she  shovelled  th' 
snuff  'nto  her  nose,  I'k'  a  dam  brerdiin'  away,  'n  kep'  a 
laughin',  t'll  she  got  tired.' 

Mr.  Bangs's  illustrations  were  all  of  the  most  left- 
handed  sort,  that  did  not  at  all  explain  or  enforce  the 
things  they  were  brought  to  illustrate  ;  but  rather  the 
contrary.  The  Priest  saw  this,  and  answered,  with  a 
view  to  it. 

"  Y'are  not  accustomed,  it's  likely,  to  discussions  of  the 
sort, — I  mane  if  your  mind  is  just  drawing  the  way  ye 
said  it  was.  I'm  thinking  it  wanders,  a  little,  just  now  ; 
maybe  it's  better  we  leave  off  now,  for  it's  my  opinion 
ye've  got  just  about  as  much  as  ye  can  cleverly  bear. 
One  thing  I'd  like  to  know  :  Are  ye  desiring  to  be  con- 
verted, as  I  understood  ye  were  ?  " 

"  My  wishes  haven't  changed  one  mite,  sir,"  said  the 
American. 

"  I  think  ye'll  do,  for  a  bit,  with  the  teaching  ye've  had. 
It's  important  to  make  an  impression  upon  ye  with  the 
solemnities  of  religion,  for  it's  a  great  hold  they  take  upon 
a  man,  and,  though  I  speak  it  with  reverence,  it's  my  sol- 
emn opinion  there's  few  places  where  ye'd  be  like  to  get 


MR.  BANGS  A  NEOPHYTE. 


269 


a  stronger  impression  upon  ye  than  just  in  my  own 
church,  though  there's  lai"ger  in  the  country,  doubtless, 
and  finer,  in  some  unimportant  pai-ticulars ;  but  I'll  take 
ye  to  high  mass,  on  Sunday  next, — (the  day's  Wednes- 
day,)— and  I  think  ye'll  be  struck  with  surprise  and  de- 
votion, all  at  wance,  if  ye  give  yer  mind  to  it." 

"  Jesso,"  said  Mr.  Bangs,  bowing  his  head  at  the  same 
time.  "  'Want  to  see  the  real  thing.  Have  heard  't  aint 
alw's  what  't  should  be  ; — that  is,  'n  thf:  ^'^^ins,  I  mean ; — 
holy  candles  and  what  not.  'Tell  me  tl.  don't  have  real 
candles,  but  things  t'  look  like  'em.  'Taint  so  'th  you, 
'course.  Wh'  I  know  a  lot  'f  's  good  candles  's  any  'n  the 
universe,  f '  next  to  nothing."     So  Mr.  Bangs  departed. 


r'  «l 


m 


270 


THE  NEW  rilTEST. 


CHAPTER   XXIX. 


MISS    DARE  S    EXPEDITION    IVITH    AN    ESCORT. 


li 


^^  ISS  Dare  Iiad  made  an  appointment  with  Mr. 
Naugliton,  for  a  ride  to  Bay-Harbor,  and  be  set 
himself  immediately  about  securing  a  steed  for 
his  own  use  on  the  occasion,  Agamemnon,  (Dunk,)  his  own 
horse  being  lame.  The  Parson's  he  did  not  quite  like  to 
borrow.  Mr.  O'Rourke  sent  word,  in  answer  to  a  verbal 
request,  that  "  he  would  as  soon  take  Mr.  Naughton  on 
his  own  back,  as  lend  his  horse  ;  "  and  the  exigency  was 
met,  at  length,  by  the  engagement  of  Jemmy  Fitz-Sim- 
nions's  white  pony,  whose  regular  rate  of  rentage  was 
one  dollar  (five  shillings,  currency,)  a  day,  and  who  cer- 
tainly made  an  honest  day's  work  of  it,  (that  is,  spent  a 
fair  working-day,  or  rather  more  about  it,)  when  em- 
ployed to  go  eight  miles  in  one  direction,  or  ten  in  the 
other. 

Mr.  Naufjliton  mounted,  the  creature  brinjjinjj  round 
his  great  white  head  and  rubbing  it,  with  a  strong  up- 
ward jerk,  against  the  whole  side  of  the  future  eques- 
trian's clothes,  on  which  this  salutation  left  a  gi'easy  soil. 
That  the  animal's  toilette  had  not  been  neglected,  was 
o'vidti'!^  from  the  mjirks  of  the  curry-comb  imprinted 
durably  in  the  discolored  and  highly-scented  fur  of  one 


i 


MISS   DAUH'S   KXPEDITION   WITH  AN   KSCOIiT.   271 


5C0RT. 

t  with  Mr. 

,  and  be  set 

a  steed  for 

ik,)  his  own 

juite  like  to 

to  a  verbal 

lugliton  on 

ligcnt'y  was 

y  Fitz-Sim- 

entage  was 

i  who  cer- 

is,  spent  a 

when  em- 

•  ten  in  tbe 

ging  round 

strong  up- 

:iii'e  eqiies- 

greasv  soil. 

looted,  was 

imprinted 

fur  of  one 


"' 


side  of  him,  whicli  fur  answered  to  tbe  adhesive  mjiterial 
in  which  it  was  mixed,  nuieb  th<  same  purpose  that  cow's 
hair  is  employed  for  in  mortar. 

"  He  didn't  look  so  good  as  he  felt,"  was  the  owner's 
assurance,  who  knew  him  best  ;  and,  having  assisted  at 
tlie  mounting,  the  ownei'  discreetly  took  himself  away. 

As  the  little  beast  had  an  inconvenient  way  of  sidling 
up  to  any  other  quadruped  who  might  be  near  enough  for 
him  to  practise  that  mtinoeuvre  u})on,  the  attempt  was  soon 
made  to  keep  him  in  advance.  There  he  was  so  effectual 
an  obstructive,  getting  riglit  across  the  way,  that  the 
attempt  to  follow  liis  leading  was  not  kept  np  with  that 
persistence  with  which  men  tie  themselves  to  tbe  lead  of 
})ig-headed  men  of  standing,  or  submit  to  the  flocking 
of  a  ])rivileged  governing  class.  Very  speedily  and 
quietly  the  spirited  horsewoman,  with  a  dexterous  cut 
of  her  whip,  at  the  right  time,  took  the  place  which  be- 
longs of  propriety  to  the  competent. 

Now,  with  a  horse  like  Miss  Dare's  (v'hich  was  a  good 
one)  in  advance,  it  must  be  a  mattei  of  compromise 
if  the  two  companions  were  to  keep  company.  Mr. 
Naughton,  did,  il:  may  fairly  be  su[)posed,  his  best.  He 
stuck  his  spurs  into  the  pony's  side;  but  from  the  "ffect 
produced  it  might  be  doubted  whether  the  little  bea  had 
not  the  power  of  drawing  in  his  nerves  from  the  tace 
of  his  body,  as  a  turth^  draws  in  his  claws.  Tl  rider 
procured  a  serviceable  stick,  to  cooperate  with  hi  <purs, 
as  a  fleet  combines  operations  with  a  land  army  'Ut  the 
pommelling  that  he  was  obliged  to  bestow  to  reduce  a 
short-lived  mitigation  of  the  vis  inerticc'-'wi  ..hioh  the 
creature  moved,  seemed  so  cruel,  that  he  could  not  do 
justice  to  that  method,  by  faithful  practise  of  it.  At 
times  the  pony  cantered  for  five  successive   paces,  but 


*  Mi^ht  of  laziness. 


-'(         !.,l 


)h 


272 


THE  NKW   TRIKST. 


ni: 


!■  11; 


it> 


a 


■y'l  ■' 


the  amount  of  progression  secured  in  this  way,  was  mueh 
what  a  table  (beibre  these  clays  of  table-tii){)ing,  of 
course,)  could  be  made  to  accomi)lish  by  having  its  two 
legs  at  each  end,  alternately  lifted  and  put  down  upon 
the  ground. 

Our  horsewoman,  accordingly,  could  hardly  help  get- 
ting nearly  out  of  sight,  now  and  then,  though  she  waited 
duly  for  her  escort,  at  convenient  distances;  occupying 
the  interval  for  the  first  part  of  the  way  between  I'eter- 
port  Riverhead  and  Castle- P>ay,  with  short  visits  at  the 
doors  of  two  or  three  houses,  whose  inmates  she  knew  as 
being  in  the  habit  of  bringing  eggs  or  poultry,  or  some 
such  lirtle  wares,  to  her  uncle's,  for  sale. 

Mr.  I^aughton  had  attemi)ted  conversation,  most  zeal- 
ously, according  to  his  slender  opportunities  ;  he  had 
remarked  upon  the  pleasant  woodland  smell,  as  they  went 
along  the  way  skirted  with  trees,  where  the  young  birches 
had  come  out  beyond  the  limits  of  the  little  forest,  like 
children  playing  at  a  short  safe  distance  in  front  of  their 
liomes.  Again, — after  an  interval, — on  the  summit  of  the 
hill,  in  Castle- Bay,  whose  side  is  precipitous  to  the  water, 
and  down  the  face  of  which  the  road  goes  as  steeply, 
almost,  as  a  waterfall,  (or  as  Whitmonday  Hill,  in  Peter- 
port,)  he  had  spoken  of  the  lovely  landscape,  in  which  the 
breadth  of  Conception-Bay  makes  so  great  a  part.  Miss 
Dare's  bright  eye  was  not  only  open  to  all  beauties  of 
nature,  but  had  found  them  out  long  ago,  and  grown 
familiar  with  them,  and  saw  in  them  what  nolhing  but  a 
(piick  eye,  practised,  could  have  seen  ;  an<l  iMr.  Naugh- 
ton,  as  they  paused,  for  a  bi'cathing-space,  at  this  look-out, 
foi'got  his  steed,  and  the  ditiu'ulties  of  horsemanship ; 
for  with  all  his  ecclesiology  and  fuss  about  tapers  and 
altar-cloths,  he  had  had  his  heart  flashed  into  before  now, 


■I 


MISS   DAUK'S    EXPKDITION   WITH   AN   KSCOKT.  27;> 


by  biii'iiing  ('jcs,  and  liad  not  been  rej^anllcss  of  b«'('oiiiii);^ 
dross.  There  was  his  tiiir  coinpanion,  with  the  iitish  of 
exereise  in  her  cheek ;  iier  veil  flowing  out  upon  the 
wind  ;  her  hair  slightly  disengaged  ;  her  white,  forehead 
looking  as  unapproachable  as  one  of  the  cliffs  that  hang 
over  the  sea  in  the  IJritish  Channel;  and  her  eyat^,  with  a 
rKpiid  Ills! re  floating  through  thetn,  like  that  which  might 
roll  its  tide  of  light  about  in  the  fabled  caves  of  the  sea. 
Just  now,  as  gazing  more  ihoughtfuUy  than  usual,  or, 
rather,  more  silently  (for  she  alv/ays  had  thouglit  enough) 
on  the  deep,  she  sat  with  lovely  ease  and  grace,  upon  her 
horse,  he  might  have  felt  as  if  a  V(M-y  sp(!cial  moment  had 
come.  There  she  was,  all  relieved  against  the  sheer 
sky;  and  Iku'  lips,  that  had  said  so  many  witty  and  pretty 
things,  silent. 

"Miss  Dare,"  he  said,  seizing  the  occasion 
"  Beautifid !  "  said  she,  finishing  with  h  v  Inadscape; 
and  then,  as  she  turned  to  him,  "  Why,  what  solemn  ex- 
ordium is  that,  Mr.  Naughton  ?  Are  you  going  to  decline 
going  any  further?  Let's  both  get  off  and  walk  down 
this  hill,  and  take  a  new  start  down  there  at  the  turn  of 
the  road.     Shall  we  ?  " 

Mr.  Naughton's  mind  was  surrounded  and  hindered 
by  the  building-materials,  out  of  which  he  was  putting 
together  that  slowest  and  hai'dest  of  coniti'uctions  which 
men  make  of  woi'ds  with  very  little  cement,  and  he  could 
not,  therefore,  instantly  get  out  of  them  ;  accordingly, 
though  this  proposal  was  a  welcome  one,  as  walking  down 
the  hill  together  would  give  him  ,-o  much  more  of  her 
society,  yet  she  had  dismounted,  ea-ily,  before  he  was 
ready  to  ask  for  her  horse's  bridle-rein.  He  was  not 
long,  however,  for  his  distance  to  the  ground  was  very 
moderate,  and  his  heart  was  vigorous. 


21i 


THE   NKW   PRIKST. 


,1  . ,  ' 


1: 


"  Don't  you  recollect  the  dog  in  the  fable,"  she  asked, 
"that  Iwid  a  piece  of  meat,  but  lost  it,  jumpinj^  for 
another  ?  " 

The  gentleman  had  in  his  mind  something  a  great  deal 
more  api)r()j)rinte  to  the  pres«!nt  occasion  than  that  fable, 
(of  wliich  he  did  not  see  the  exact  reference,  at  such  a 
moment;)  ho  had  what  mu>t  be  said,  or  the  time  for  it 
would  have  gone  by.  It  was  a  (flotation ;  and  as  he 
went  down,  leading  her  horse,  he  got  it  forth. 

"Ah!  Miss  FaiHiy,  do  you  remember  those  lines  of 
Burns :  '  We've  climbed  life's  hill  togeiher  ?  '  " 

"■Not  quite  that;  but  a  good  deal  like  it;  'theglther' 
is  the  real  Scotti-h  ; — but  do  please  attend  to  my  fable, 
Mr.  Magistrate,  if  you  expect  us  to  go  down  this  liill, 
thegither ;  look  to  your  Arabian  courser,  or  you'll  lose 
him." 

Now,  though  it  will  never  do  to  let  one's  self  get  into  a 
ludicrous  or  awkward  position  in  the  eyes  of  a  lady 
whom  he  values,  yet  there  are  different  ways  of  escaping 
that  ill-luck;  sometimes  by  overbearing  and  putting  down 
circun'-tances  ;  sometimes  by  giving  way  to  and  following 
them  ;  .-imetimes  by  taking  dexterous  advantage  of  them 
and  turning  thciin  to  account.  Mr.  Naughton's  wit  was  in 
a  sharpened  state;  he  sav/  at  once  tliat  he  might  just  as 
well  cast  off  his  quotation  and  abandon  it  to  the  waters 
of  oblivion  ;  as  to  his  horse,  the  creature  wouldn't  go, 
with  all  the  appliances  that  he  could  bring  to  bear  upon 
him,  and  could  be  recovered  in  half  a  minute. 

"  You'd  better  leave  me  Brutus,"  said  Miss  Dare,  as 
the  gentleman  turned  up  the  hill,  holding  her  horse's 
rein ;  "  I'll  give  him  back  to  you,  when  you've  got  Fitz- 
Simmons."  "Very  good;"  answered  Mr.  Naughton  with 
a  few  hasty  steps   getting  u]>  with  the  pony.     The  little 


MISS   DARE'S   EXPEDITION   WITH   AN   ESCORT.    275 


benst  was  rroi)j)iiig  such  jriTiss  as  tlin  top  of  that  plc- 
lui'c^qne  hill  siistaincil.  Tie  did  not  look  loiiiid,  or  tako 
his  toelh  off  iiis  food,  but  he  qni(!tly  tuiiK'd  towards  hi-; 
late  i'id(3r  a  part  of  his  body  wliieh  wore  no  bridle,  and 
was  unoccupied  in  eating. 

Grecians  and  Romans  often  made  great  work  of  it 
wluin  they  fought,  with  their  wives,  and  mothers,  and 
beloved  maidens  looking  on ;  but  here  was  a  fortress  to 
be  charged  that  could  turn  faster  and  better  than  a 
windmill,  and  bring  a  pair  of  ugly  heels  to  the  defence. 

"  He'll  stand  on  his  dignity  now,  after  all  that's  been 
said  and  done  to  him,  like  the  boy  in  Wednesbury  church, 
that  stopped  the  bellows,  to  show  what  part  in  tlie  music 
he  played,"  said  the  ruaiden,  spectator  of  tlu;  contest  of 
agility  and  skill,  then  and  there  going  on. 

"  Woa  !  "  cried  Mr.  Natighton,  in  a  soothing  and  con- 
ciliatory tone,  perfectly  fair  in  war,  and  trying  to  get  up 
beside  the  pony ;  but  as  the  moon  turns  one  face  to  the 
earth  continually,  and  not  another,  so  Jenmiy  Fitz  Sim- 
mons's  little  horse  seemed  to  follow  the  same  laws  of 
gravitation,  offering  always  to  the  nobler  animal  the  self- 
same part. 

Mr.  Naufrhton  strove  to  settle  this  method  of  arijumcnt 
by  a  hearty  thwack,  which  was  very  fairly  administered. 
This  manoeuvre,  like  a  shake  of  a  kaleidoscope,  brought 
about  a  new  disposition  of  the  pieces  making  our  figure: 
the  horse,  snatching  up  his  head.,  whirled  roimd  on  his 
hind  feet  and  began  to  go — not  as  might  have  been  ex- 
pected of  a  shrewd  little  fellow,  that  had  often  been 
through  the  same  simple  process  of  reasoning  upon  that 
point,  towards  home — in  which  direction  grass  was  just  as 
cheap  and  good  at  the  wayside,  and  every  step  was  away 
from  a  journey, — but  down  hill,  though  keeping  the  side 


¥H 


h 


I  :■ 


27G 


THE   NEW   PRIEST. 


t'  'I 

I 
J 


noar  the  ganlon-rotl  fence.  Mr.  Naughton,  with  dignity, 
ke|)l  ihe  road  a  little  behind. 

When  the  beast  reached,  as  he  soon  did,  a  place  where 
the  road,  being  cut  down,  left  hinistdf  on  the  top  of  a 
bank,  he  then  turned  round  abruptly,  and  got  himself 
beyond  his  pursuer  in  the  other  direction. 

Any  one  who  has  been  through  this  |)rocess  of  catching 
a  slow-footed  horse,  with  predilections  for  pasture,  can 
fancy  the  further  progress  of  the  pursuer  and  pui-sued. 
The  pony  enacted  to  the  best  of  his  ability  the  part  of 
the  pretty  little  butterHy,  leading  on  and  (duding  the  boy; 
but  on  the  other  side  of  the  hill  from  Miss  Dare,  several 
circumstances  turned  to  the  help  of  Mr.  Naughton  ;  he 
had  left  his  dignity  behind,  witliin  the  young  lady's  sight, 
and,  moreover,  tin;  road  backward  lay  through  the  flakes, 
on  wliich  the  women  were  already  turning  and  spreading 
the  fish,  and  while  their  being  there  took  some  nimble- 
ness  from  his  limbs,  it  also  secured  as  many  feet  and 
hands  as  were  needed  for  his  purpose.  The  ponj^  was 
at  length  caught  on  the  beach,  under  a  flake,  with  his 
face  magnanimously  towards  the  deep,  and  his  M\  ankle 
hobbled  with  his  bridle-rein,  which  he  either  could  not  or 
would  not  break.  So  he  was  recovered ;  but  what  time 
and  possible  opportunities  had  been  lost !  Mr.  Naughton 
broke  Iiis  substantial  stick,  not  as  an  official  breaks  his 
staff  of  office,  having  no  farther  use  for  it,  but  in  actual 
discharge  of  authority  upon  the  offender. 

Miss  Dare  was  not  where  he  had  left  her :  having 
laughed  heartily  at  tlie  beginning  and  first  steps  of  the 
chase,  che  had  gently  descended  the  hill;  had  leisurely 
mounted  at  a  rock  by  the  roadside,  and  was  waiting  at 
the  little  bridge  (or  perhaps  it  was  a  ford  then)  before 
you  get  to  the  long  hill,  down  which  comes  now  a  later 


|.r,i) : 


:m 


MISS  DAKK'S  EXPEDITION   WITH  AN  ESCORT.    277 


way,  and  a  les3  steep  one,  than  that  wliich  alone  crossed 
it  in  that  (hiy. 

The  view  is  a  very  fair  one  as  you  get  to  the  lii^hcst 
level  between  Castl<'-r)ay  and  Bny-ITarbor.  T'pon  the 
left,  in  the  direction  of  tlie  Barrens,  the  eye  eatclu's  the 
sheen  ol'  more  than  one  inland  lake,  and  on  the  ri{]jht 
hand  and  before  you  lies  large  and  grand  the  I'ay,  with 
lightly-wooded  ups  and  downs  between — sometimes  ab- 
rupt contrasts  of  height  and  hollow, — which  are  very 
picturesque. 

The  air  on  this  bright  day  was  clear  and  exhilarating, 
and  Miss  Dare  and  her  horse  alike  found  it  difficult  to 
accommotlate  themselves  to  the  tardy  pjiee  of  "  Fitz,"  a,s 
Mr.  Naughton's  courser  was  by  this  time  called.  The 
gallant  gentleman  who  bestrode  this  lagging  steed,  felt 
the  awkwardness  of  his  position,  but  could  not  make  it 
any  better.  After  a  violent  exertion  of  one  arm  and  hand, 
and  both  legs  and  feet,  to  which  the  pony  -was  an  un- 
willing party,  the  effect  produced  was  much  as  if  he  had 
been  working  a  rude  ehictrical  machine ;  a  nervous  force 
was  generated,  which  spent  itself  in  three  and  a  half 
spasmodic,  cantering  steps  of  the  quadruped.  This  dis- 
play of  scientific  manipulation,  the  horseman  hesitated  to 
exhi^^'it  before  the  unappreciative  inhabitants  of  certain 
dwellings,  that  began  to  appear  in  the  neighborhood  of 
the  Riverhead  of  Bay-PIarbor,  and  still  more  in  presence 
of  the  more  frequent  houses  that  fronted  the  road  from 
that  place  onward,  and  therefore  the  latter  half  of  the 
way  from  Castle-Bay  was  traversed  with  more  leisurely 
dignity  than  the  former. 

"You  left  off  at  'climbed  life's  hill  thegither,'"  said 
Miss  Dare,  prompting  her  companion  in  his  unfinished 
part. 


'•! 


IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


// 
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fliotographic 

Sciences 

Corporation 


23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  14SS0 

(716)  872-4503 


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278 


THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


"Ah  !  yes,  and  I  was  pfoing — if  I  hadn't "- 


— "'been  interrupted,'"  she  supplied,  "to  the  Roman 
Catholic  Mission  at  Bay-Harbor." 

Even  in  the  midst  of  an  ajtparent  preoccupation  of 
mind,  Mr.  Naughton  was  astonished. 

"  Yes,  and  on  your  business  too.  You  remember  how 
Deborah  took  Barak,  son  of  Abinoam,  with  her,  and  how 
Sisera  was  delivered  '  into  the  hand  of  a  woman  ? ' " 

Whether  by  the  suggestion  of  the  last  five  words,  or, 
however  prompted,  Mr.  Naughton's  interest  even  in  the 
strange  object  of  Miss  Dare's  visit  to  Bay- Harbor,  was 
diverted  to  an  object  of  his  own. 

There  was  one  occult  part  of  that  Bay- Harbor  road, 
with  a  bank  to  the  left,  and  a  fence  and  some  firs  to  the 
right,  a  bend  in  front  and  a  descent  behind,  where  Mr. 
Naughton  began  to  check  his  steed  with  the  voice,  and 
the  steed  began  to  stop. 

"  Why,  what  has  happened  to  Fitz-Araby  now,  Mr. 
Magistrate?"  inquired  Miss  Dare,  reining  up  and  turn- 
ing her  horse  about ;  "  has  he  dropped  one  of  his  legs,  at 
last,  in  practising  that  very  skilful  pace  ?  " 

Mr.  Naughton  answered  only  indirectly,  by  repeating 
his  request  to  his  pony,  soothingly, — 

"  Wo-o  !  wo-o  !  wo — o !  "  and  stimulating  him  with  his 
armed  heels,  looking,  moreover,  down  towards  the  pony's 
left  forefoot,  assiduously. 

In  addition  to  the  dilated  monosyllable  which  had 
been  hitherto  applied  to  Fitz  and  counteracted  by  the 
spurs,  the  horseman  must  have  drawn  upon  the  bridle, 
for  before  coming  up  with  the  larger  beast,  the  lesser 
stood  still.  The  spurs  were  still  actively  employed,  but 
with  the  rein  exerted  against  them  were  inefficient  to 
produce  motion,  and  rather  fastened  the  feet  with  intense 


mSS   DARK'S   FA'PEDTTION    WITH   AN  ESCORT.    279 

tenacity  to  the  frroiind.  INIiss  Daro  witnessed  every  tiling 
with  a  smile.  jNTr.  Nanjrhton's  mind  was  not  at  all  fet- 
tered and  kept  down  to  the  eircunistanees  by  which  it 
was  temporarily  surrounded,  for  he  found  his  voice  and 
>poke  out  of  the  midst  of  them,  without  any  reference  to 
Fitz,  or  rein,  or  spur. 

"  Oh  ! "  said  he,  "  if  I  coidd  dare  to  hope  that  you 
would  he  persuaded  to  make  the  journey  of  life  with  me, 
Miss  Dare  " 

"  Oh,  no,  Mr.  Naui.diton,  of  course  not,"  she  said ; 
"shall  we  go  on  to  Bay-IIarbor?  We  shall  be  compan- 
ions so  far,  and  back,  if  you  please." 

He  loosed  his  tijrhtened  rein,  applied,  sadly,  his  stick 
and  spurs,  and  in  sadness  which  he  could  not  hide,  went 
forward.  The  answer  was  ])erhaps  just  the  one  best 
adapted  to  his  case ;  but  it  did  not  take  its  specific  effect 
immediately. 

Father  Terence  was  at  home,  and  kind  and  courteous 
as  usual.  IMiss  Dare  told  him  directly,  that  she  wished 
his  permission  to  ask  a  question  at  the  Nunnery  about 
the  missing  girl ;  and  he  wrote  a  note, — taking  his  time 
to  it, — in  which,  as  she  requested, — he  introduced  her, 
without  mentioning  the  object  of  her  visit.  He  under- 
took the  entertainment  of  Mr.  Naughton,  who  was  very 
grave  and  agitated,  and  whom,  therefore,  the  kind-hearted 
man  mistook  for  the  father  of  the  maiden,  and  tried  to 
occupy  about  other  things. 

When  JNIiss  Dare  came  back  from  her  interview  with 
the  nun,  she  found  Father  Terence  showing  Mr.  Naughton 
as  heartily  and  hospitably  over  "  the  grounds,"  as  if 
there  were  a  thousand  acres  of  them,  all  waving  with 
grain  or  larger  growth,  or  carpeted  with  green  herbs. 

There   was,   indeed,   a   potato-garden,    in   dimensiona 


IliiM-' ; 


280 


THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


about  forty  feet  by  sixty,  and  as  stony  almost  as  a  maca- 
damized road,  and  a  little  pateh  of  potato-onions,  of  which 
the  worthy  Priest  was  rather  |)roiid ;  th^re  was  a  pigsty 
grunting,  and  squelching,  and  squeeling,  with  pigs  of 
every  size  ;  and  there  were  tlocks  of  geese,  and  turkeys, 
and  ducks,  and  hens,  and  chickens,  which  certainly  gave 
a  very  cheerful  and  comfortable  look  to  the  premises,  and 
warranted  the  proprietor's  eloquence,  which  the  young 
lady  overheard  as  she  drew  near. 

Father  Terence,  having  learned,  in  answer  to  his  ques- 
tion, that  she  had  not  found  the  missing  girl,  and  had 
been  informed  that  she  was  not  with  the  nuns,  met  the 
information  with  a  very  emphatic 

"  How  would  they  have  her  then  ?  or  would  any 
Christians  act  that  way  ?  " 

Miss  Dare  did  not  repeat  to  the  Priest  what  she  had 
said  to  the  nun,  and  the  kind-hearted  man  went  on  to  say 
that  he  was  glad  she  had  come  straight  down  and  satis- 
fied herself,  for  "  people  often  took  up  notions  that  were 
not  the  thing  at  all,  and  Catholics  were  not  all  that 
bad  that  some  Protestants  thought  them ; "  an  assertion 
which,  nobody  who  knew  or  even  saw  the  speaker,  would 
think  of  doubting.  Miss  Dare  assented  to  it,  cordially ; 
Mr.  Naughton,  (who  was  very  grave  and  silent,)  with 
less  animation  than  might  have  been  expected. 

The  young  lady  was  anxious  to  get  away,  and  the  old 
man,  with  a  courtesy  that  was  well-becoming  to  his  years 
and  character,  escorted  his  guests  towards  the  gate. 

"  I  guess  'f  any  b'dy  was  goin'  t'  cut  *p  a  caper  o'  that 
sort,  he'd  leave  Father  O'Toole  out,"  said  a  voice  behind 
them,  easily  recognized  by  any  one  who  had  heard  it  be- 
fore. Mr.  Naughton  had  heard  it  before  ;  and  his  gravity 
became  rather  grim,  as  he  walked  on  regardless.     Miss 


I- 


MISS   DARK'S   EXPEDITION   WITH   AN   ESCORT.     281 


Dare  turned  round,  but  no  speaker  was  in  sight,  though 
the  toj)  of  a  hat  was  to  he  seen  behind  the  fence,  as  if 
the  occupier  were  sitting  there,  niucli  at  home. 

"  It's  a  merchant  from  Amerikya  tliat's  inquiring  into 
the  CathoHc  faitli,"  said  Father  Terence,  by  way  of  ex- 
planation. 

"  Wall,  'm  beginnin'  to  see  through  it,  now,  I  b'lieve," 
said  the  mercantile  scholar  I'rom  over  the  sea,  whose  ears 
seemed  to  be  good. 

"Ye'll  think  better  o'  the  Catholics  after  finding  out 
this  mistake,"  the  Priest  said,  as  he  saw  his  visitors  off. 

Fitz-Siramons's  pony  might  have  been  expected  to  go 
home  Jit  a  much  better  rate  than  that  which  he  had 
maintained  during  the  ride  to  Bay-IIarbor ;  but  as  if  to 
convince  his  rider  that  it  was  not  mere  attachment  to 
home  that  possessed  his  legs,  he  ])aced  the  street  of  the 
town  much  as  he  had  paced  it  an  hour  ago.  The  magis- 
trate, however,  was  another  man  ;  his  stick  was  more 
effective ;  his  spurs  struck  more  sharply ;  and  as  Miss 
Dare,  occupied  with  her  thoughts,  kept  a  very  moderate 
gait,  the  young  lady  and  her  escort  were  not  far  asunder. 

She  tried  to  draw  out  her  companion,  as  they  rode 
along,  but  he  was  moody ;  and  conversation  was  very  un- 
equally carried  on.  She  dismissed  him  at  her  uncle's 
gate ;  and, — when  he  was  out  of  sight, — went  down  to 
i\Ir.  Wellon's  ;  but  he  was  not  at  home  : — 


282 


THE  NEW   PRIEST. 


ciiaptf:r  XXX. 


ACROSS    THE    BAKRENS. 


sOR,  on  the  day  before,  intelligence  liad  come  to 
him,  and  this  day,  with  Gilpin  and  Billy  Bow, 
and  .Tesse  in  his  company,  (the  latter  leaving  Isaac 
Matfen  in  charge  of  the  funeral  arrangements,)  he  had 
very  early  followed  its  leading.  His  dog,  like  Tobit's, 
followed  him. 

Jt  was  an  unsubstantial  and  broken  story:  that  a  man, 
going  across  the  Barrens  to  Trinity  Bay  on  the  evening 
of  Lucy's  disappearance,  had  seen  a  young  woman  in 
■white  clothes  at  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile's  distance  be- 
fore him,  going  towards  New-Harbor;  and,  on  the  even- 
ing of  the  next  day,  she,  or  a  like  person,  had  been  seen 
at  the  Cove  near  New-Harbor. 

This  story  did  not  agree  with  received  theory ;  nor 
was  it  easily  reconciled  with  known  facts ;  but  perhaps  it 
could  be  reconciled  with  both  theory  and  facts ;  and  it 
was  worth  following. 

The  little  nets  that  spiders  spread  were  bright  with 
dew,  and  so  were  the  leaves  of  the  sheep's  laurel  and  other 
shrubs,  and  all  the  air  was  clear  as  air  could  be.  It  was 
not  yet  the  time  for  sunrise,  and  our  party  left  the  sun  to 
rise  behind  them,  as  they  set  forth  eagerly  from  the  place 
of  meeting,  which  was  at  Dick  Mc Finn's,  where  the  road 


ACROSS   TIIK   13AUR1:NS. 


!>8;3 


through  tlic  woods  and  across  the  Barrens  leaves  Castle- 
Bay  lor  New-IIarhor. 

McFiiin  "  had  heard  nothing,"  he  said,  "  but  a  small 
sketeh,  just,  that  was  passed  about  from  wan  to  another, 
in  a  manner,  all  round  the  Bay ;  he  could  not  say  was  it 
true  or  no." 

Just  as  they  were  leaving  the  place  to  follow  the  cross- 
road to  the  Barrens,  Gilpin,  whose  eye  was  very  quick, 
and  never  idle,  called  the  Parson's  attention  to  the  road 
over  which  they  had  lately  come. 

♦•There's  that  noo  priest,  Father  Ignatius,  as  they  calls 
un,"  said  he.     *'  There's  something  wrong  with  un." 

Mr.  Wellon  looked  at  the  new-cotner,  who  seemed  to 
be  walking  slowly  and  thoughtfully,  but  who  was  so  far 
off  as  to  make  it  im2)ossible  to  detect  the  expression  of 
his  face. 

"  Tins  young  Mr.  Urston,"  continued  Gilpin,  "  says 
there's  a  quarrel  between  Father  Nicholas  (they  calls  un) 
and  the  noo  one.  Father  Debree  charges  un  wi'  carrying 
off  Skipper  George's  daughter,  he  thinks ;  and  he  says 
they  weren't  too  good  friends  before. — I  thinks  he's  too  en- 
lightened for  'em,  or  he  wouldn't  trouble  himself  about  it." 

"  He  might  not  aj)prove  of  man-stealing,  even  if  he 
believed  all  their  doctrines,"  said  Mr.  Wellon,  smiling, 
and  setting  forward. 

"  The  old  priest  mayn't ;  but  there  isn't  many  like 
him. — Do  you  think  this  Father  Debree  used  to  be  a 
Churchman,  sir?  " 

"  He  may  have  been,"  said  tlic  clergyman ;  "  I  don't 
know." 

'•  So  they  says  ;  and  his  father  used  to  be  a  high  man 
in  St.  John's.  He  hasn't  met  the  lady,  Mrs.  Berry 
since,  from  what  I  hears." 


284 


THK  xi:w  ruiKST. 


'i- 


•  I 


i''i 


Vl 


* 


"  You  keep  a  pretty  sluirp  look-out  for  your  neighbors' 
doings,"  said  Mr.  Wcllon. 

*'  I've  got  into  .lie  way  of  it,  I  suppose  ;  but  he  might 
do  her  u  good  turn  now,  relation,  or  no  relation.  You 
heard  these  stories  they  got  up  ahout  her,  sir?  " 

"No;  I  know  only  what  her  letters  from  England  say 
of  her,  and  what  she  has  told  me  herself.  If  you  hear 
any  thing  against  Mrs.  Barre,  of  any  sort,  you  may  eon- 
tradiet  it  on  my  authority ;  she's  a  lady  of  the  very  high- 
est charaeter." 

"  Nobody  '11  believe  it  except  the  Romans,  sir ;  and 
there's  just  where  he  ought  to  stop  it,  and  might,  if  he 
would.     We  can  kill  it  among  our  people  fast  enough." 

— There  is  iio  house,  unless  of  beasts  or  birds,  be- 
tween McFinn's  and  the  other  side. 

So  up  the  iiill  and  through  the  woods, — where  the 
trees  of  twenty  or  thirty  feet  in  height  look  prematurely 
old  with  the  long  moss  clinging  to  them, — our  party 
went,  at  a  stroiig,  steady  pace,  and  speculating  among 
themselves,  from  time  to  time,  of  the  lost  maiden's  fate. 

Occasionally  a  bird  started,  before  or  beside  them,  and, 
once  or  twice,  Jesse,  who  bore,  beside  his  parcel  contain- 
ing food,  a  huge  king's-arm,  fired  off, — gravely  and 
sadly, — his  cumbrous  piece  in  the  direction  of  the  little 
fugitives,  with  no  result  unless  to  inspire  confidence  in 
the  feathered  inhabitants  of  the  woods  that  weapons  of 
that  sort  were  rather  used  for  pleasure  than  to  do  mis- 
chief with;  and  to  give  the  marksman  himself  occasion  to 
philosophize  on  "the  toughness  they  birds  got  with  livun 
wild,"  as  if  they  had  received  the  whole  charge  of  shot 
unharmed. 

It  is  about  six  miles  through  these  woods  before  get- 
ting to  the  wilderness,  between  them  and  those  upon  the 


ACROSS  THE   BAHUKNS. 


28o 


other  side,  bordering  Trinity  Bay.  The  wind  was  going 
upon  its  errand,  in  the  same  direction  '.ilh  themselves; 
it  mny  have  h(Mird,  somewhere,  of  Lifcy. 

About  mid-way,  they  met  a  man  coming  from  the  other 
side  over  to  Conception  Way,  and  as  l.e  had  some  sliglit 
acquaintance  witli  our  smith,  the  two  fell  easily  into  con- 
versation. This  man  had  heard  of  the  lost  girl,  and  of 
the  person  seen  upon  the  otiier  si<le ;  and  he  had  heard 
what  they  had  not  yet  heard,  that,  at  this  very  moment, 
a  sick  girl,  answering  to  tlieir  description,  was  lying  in  a 
house  over  at  the  Cove, — two  miles  or  so  from  New- 
llarbor.  He  thought  her  friends  knew  of  it,  but  some- 
thing hindered  them  from  coming  over. 

"That's  a  droll  story,"  said  (iilpin,  as  he  turned  away 
from  his  Trinity-Bay  acquaintan(;e.  '•  I  don't  think  it 
would  be  long  that  we'd  have  sat  still,  tiiinking  about  it, 
after  we'd  heard  of  it.  Once,  would  have  been  enough, 
1  think." 

Little  likelihood  as  there  seemed  in  the  story,  Mr.  "Well- 
ou  was  not  inclined  to  dismiss  it  summarily;  he  thought 
it  possible  that  it  had  been  taken  for  granted,  as  it  often 
is  in  sickness,  that  intelligence  had  been  carried,  or  had 
found  its  way  to  those  who  ougiit  to  know.  He  said  "it 
was  not  very  likely,  but  it  was  possible,  and  that  was  a 
good  deal." 

Jesse  seized  on  the  story  instantly,  as  one  which  grati- 
fied the  appetite  lor  something  rather  marvellous,  and 
therefore  seemed  to  him  more  probable  than  any  simpler 
and  more  common-place  solution  of  a  strange  and  myste- 
rious affair.  Will  Frank  said,  "  there  had  bin  amany 
strange  things  in  this  world  ;  it  was  a  strange  thing  that 
Lucy  was  not  to  bo  heard  or  sid,  all  of  a  sudden  ;  and 
another   strange    thing,    like    what    the  Ti'inity-U'y-man 


WM 

ilL,M 

28r, 


THE   NKW   rUIKST. 


I: 


Pm 


liad  jii«»t  atoM,  miglit  bo  true,  too.  lid  roiildn'  take  it 
upon  liimsclf  to  say  it  wasu',  .surely."  The  constable 
tliou;xht  ''there  was  a  better  road  h'adinpj  to  where  she 
was  than  any  in  tlie  Barrens;"  but  all  went  forward 
faster  than  before,  to  be  resolved  about  this  story. 

They  reach  the  woods  upon  the  other  side,  toil  throufjh 
them,  and  come  out  upon  the  pretty  shore  and  water  of 
New-IIarbor.  A  schooirr  was  Ivinj;  near  a  stajre  in 
front  of  jNIr.  Oldhame's  premises,  to  the  right ;  and  there 
was  a  vessel  of  some  size  upon  the  ways,  nearly  ready 
for  launching.  P'rom  tliis  last,  the  sound  of  caulkers' 
hammers,  though  not  so  fast  and  frequent  as  in  some 
countries,  came  frequent;  and  towards  that  point,  our 
party  turned  their  steps. 

They  found  the  merchant  overseeing  operations  at  the 
new  schooner,  and  i'"ady  to  ent(M'  into  their  business, 
but  unable  to  give  any  informnlion.  He  said  that  he 
had  not  been  able  to  hear  any  tiling  at  all  definite  ;  that, 
certainly,  a  person  might  go  througli  a  j)lace,  and  there 
might  be  no  more  trace  left  of  him  than  of  the  way  of  a 
bird  through  the  air,  as  the  Bible  said ;  but  as  to  proof 
that  could  be  depended  upon,  of  any  one's  having  seen 
any  such  girl  as  was  described,  he  did  not  believe  there 
was  any. 

The  latest  information  which  they  hou  received, — that 
which  had  met  them,  namely,  'n  the  miy, — had  but  dis- 
couraging rece})tion  here  :  Mr.  Oldhame  said  that  he  had 
daily  communication  with  the  Cove,  and  many  times  a 
day ;  and,  if  there  had  really  been  any  such  person  lying 
sick  there,  he  must  have  heard  of  it.  Howc^ver,  to  make 
all  sure,  it  was  only  necessary  to  ask  among  half  a  dozen 
men,  from  that  place,  who  were  at  work  apon  the 
schooner. 


CROSS   THE   BARRENS. 


287 


These  men,  aUis,  knew  only  of  old  Mrs.  Ayles,  who 
had  been  bed-ridden  for  tiiree  years,  that  could  be  called 
nick,  among  their  neighbors ;  they  had  heard  that  a  girl 
from  Conception  Bay  had  been  sick  in  New-IIai*bor,  and 
that  her  friends  had  come  and  got  her  home. 

So,  among  them  all,  then,  this  down  of  fleeting,  unsub- 
stjuuial  hoi)e  was  blown  frotn  one  to  another,  and  seemed 
ijcarce  worth  the  following.     Vain  chase  ! 

If  it  could  have  been  narrowed  down  to  this  s[)ot,  and 
tlie  roads  or  paths  that  lead  from  it,  there  would  have 
been  some  end  toward  which  to  work,  and  limits  to  their 
labor ;  but  if  there  should  be  nothing  to  connect  the  miss- 
ing one  with  this  place,  then  the  whole  waste,  a  little  way 
from  them,  or,  rather,  the  whole  world,  was  open  again ; 
and  the  world  is  wide. 

The  merchant  offered,  heartily,  to  go  about  with  them 
and  make  inquiries  ;  and  so  he  did.  They  went  about  in 
vain.  They  stood  on  the  giound  of  the  little  mist,  that,  at 
first,  and  afar,  had  something  the  look  of  substance.  If 
there  were  any  thing  in  it,  at  least  they  could  not  find  it. 

About  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  after  refreshment 
at  the  hos])i table  INIr.  Oldhame's,  they  started  to  go  home  ; 
and  as  they  trode,  again,  the  same  road  through  the 
woods,  toward  the  wide,  weary  Barrens,  the  way  seemed 
wearier  than  before. 

Mr.  "Wellon,  who  followed,  was  going  thoughtfully  up 
the  side  of  the  first  "  gulch,"  when  he  was  suddenly  over- 
taken and  addressed  by  a  man,  whom,  on  turning  round, 
he  saw  to  be  Ladford. 

"  Why !  what  brings  you  ov€  '  here  ?  "  asked  the  Par- 
son. 

"  Same  that  drives  a  good  many  away  from  home  : — 
fear ! "  said  the  former  smuggler.     "  It  wouldn't  do  for 


I 

I 


W# 


288 


THE  NEW   PUIEST. 


I 


h'i  '•: 


'^U- 


A 

j|.' 

Illy 

« 

me  to  come  before  the  Justice,  ri;;ht  or  wrong. — It'll 
blow  past  in  a  clay  or  two. —  IJiit,  Mr.  Wellon,  1  know 
where  Skipper  Georges  duuyhter  is  !  I  tlion<;ht  it  uiigiit 
be  :  noWy  1  know  it. — I  must  tell  it  fast. — O'  Monday 
night,  between  nine  and  ten,  by  the  moon,  I  wiw  over 
beyond  the  priests*  place,  there,  at  Bay-IIarbor,  looking 
at  the  back  of  that  building  they  say  U  a  nunnery. 
Tliere  was  a  light  burning  in  one  particular  room,  with 
just  a  white  curtain  down  against  the  window.  1  was 
just  thinking:  'there  are  no  gratings  on  the  window; 
but  it  seems  to  me,  if  I  could  oidy  once  see  into  that 
room,  I  should  see  where  Lucy  Barbury  was  kept.' 
Exactly  at  that  very  word,  as  the  thought  came  into  my 
mind,  there  was  a  sort  of  stir  in  the  room,  and  the  liglit 
veered,  and  there  was  a  shadow  on  the  curtain.  I  could 
see  more  than  one  woman, — in  their  nun's  dress,  I  sup- 
pose it  was ; — and  then  there  was  a  i)icture  painted  on 
that  curtain,  as  clear  as  the  lines  of  a  clit!"  in  the  lightning : 
there  was  a  woman  this  side  and  t'other,  and  in  the  mid- 
dle was  Lucy  Barbury^  just  as  plain  as  that  lir-tree." 
"  What !  Are  you  sure  of  your  senses  ?  " 
"  They've  had  thirty-six  years  of  pretty  good  practice," 
said  the  smuggler. — "  No,  sir  ;  there's  no  mistake  :  1  see 
a  thing,  when  I  see  it.  It  was  as  if  they'd  taken  her  out 
of  bed,  and  had  her  in  their  arms ;  and  there  was  her 
face — just  the  side  of  it — and  the  bend  of  her  neck,  and 
her  lips  open,  as  I've  seen  her  for  hours  and  hours,  take 
it  altogether,  when  I've  sat  and  heard  her  read.  The 
back  of  the  hou.^e,  and  where  I  was,  was  pitch-dark  ;  for 
the  moon  was  afront,  scarce  rising  ;  it  couldn't  have  been 
plainer,  and  I  wasn't  a  stone's  throw  off.  It  didn't  last 
half  a  minute,  perhaps,  but  it  lasted  long  enough ;  and 
then  I  was  startled,  and   came  away.     I've  never  told 


:!..      ^^ 


ACROSS  THK   BAUKKN'S. 


2.S!) 


a  living  soul, — not   the  mon   tlmt  were   with   mo   that 
niglit." 

"That's  a  wonderful  «tory!"  said  tiic  clergyman, 
"but  it  confirms  tiic-  suspicion."  So  saying,  lie  turned 
round  in  tlie  direclion  of  liay-IIarlK)r,  wlule  he  wiw 
sili'iitly  thinliing.  Tiicn  turning  to  Ladford,  witli  the 
looli  of  tiiouglit  still  upon  his  face,  he  aslvcd,  "  Wliat  niglit 
wastiiat?" 

"  Monday  niglit,  sir.  I  tried  to  see  you  that  night,  and 
again  yesterday  morning,  and  to-day  I  sent  a  letter." 

"  I'm  glad  no  one  knows  it,"  said  INIr.  Wellon  ;  "  we 
must  work  silently,  and  when  we're  ready,  finish  suddenly." 

"My  secrets  are  pn^tty  safe  with  me,"  said  the  poor 
smuggler,  smiling  sadly ;  "  if  I  wanted  to  tell  them,  I 
couldn't." 

"  It  will  be  time  enough  for  this,  when  we  must  have 
evidence,"  said  the  clergyman. 

"  IIow  far  do  you  think  my  story  would  go  ?  "  asked 
Ladford. 

"  I  think  it  must  be  good  in  law.  You  can  swear  to 
it?" 

"  Ay,  sir  :  but  my  story  ?  "  asked  Ladford  again,  with 
a  long  emphasis  on  the  possessive  pronoun.  "  Where  am 
I  to  swear  ?  What  court  could  I  testify  in  ?  or  what 
magistrate  could  I  go  before,  to  make  my  affidavit  ?  " 

"  The  question  of  your  credibility — " 

"  No,  sir  ;  no  question  of  my  credibility.  Let  me  come 
near  a  court  of  justice,  or  even  let  it  be  known  that  I 
could  testify,  and  there'll  be  some  one  to  get  a  noose 
round  my  neck,  that  I  can't  slip.  I  ought  to  be  gone, 
now,  Mr.  Wellon ;  Gilpin  would  have  to  take  me." 

"  We  must  take  care  of  that,"  said  Mr.  Wellon.  "  I 
won't  bring  you  into  danger." 

10 


20y 


THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


'!    :l: 


i'-  ■\ii'- 


ll, 


' ' 


*•    ■'  ■  ■ 


.^M  '0 


F   :r 


"  If  I  could  save  a  life  that's  worth  so  much  more  than 
mine — and  George  Barbury's  daughter," — the  smuggler 
answered  ;  "  if  it  was  even  by  dangling  in  the  air,  like  a 
reef-point ; — but  I  wouldn't  throw  away  life  for  nothing, 
and  least  of  alL  just  when  I've  set  about  using  it  to  some 
good." 

There  was  nothing  base  in  the  poor  man's  look,  as  Mr. 
Wellon  now  saw  him;  bur  ro  the  pastor's  eye,  there 
stood  within  that  worthless  raiment,  and  in  the  subject  of 
that  sad  history,  one  for  whom  the  world  would  be  no 
equal  ransom,  and  about  whom,  even  now,  there  was 
melodious,  joyful  converse  in  the  streets  of  that  city, 
where  "  there  is  joy  over  one  sinner  that  repenteth." 

Neither  the  constable  nor  any  of  the  party  turned 
back ;  and  Mr.  Wellon  finished  his  short  communication 
with  Ladford,  uninterrujited.  It  was  not  until  they  got 
near  the  knoll  towards  the  other  side  of  the  Barrens,  that 
he  communicated  ..u  Gilpin  the  information  he  had  re- 
ceived. Skipper  Charlie  expressed  no  surprise  at  hearing 
of  Ladford's  whereabouts,  but  said  of  his  news, — 

"  Well,  he's  been  away  for  some  good ;  that  puts  us  od 
the  old  track  again,  sir." 


iii^'ii6Uitm'it6^it6Ui 


s?..'] 


MISS   FANNY   DARE  REPORTS. 


291 


CHAPTER   XXXI. 


MISS    FANNY    DAKE    KEPORTS. 

jEXT  day,  Miss  Dare  met  the  Parson  walking  by, 
and  said,  "  Mr.  Naughton  and  I  have  visited  the 
Nunnery,  officially  ;  only,  I  suppose  that  I  really 
ought  to  say  '  I  and  Mr.  Naughton  ; '  for,  indeed,  I  was 
the  magistrate,  and  ho  only  what  the  Germans  call  the 

*I30PPflflanflCr* tlie  figure    of  the    magistrate, 

at  my  side.     1  said  and  did." 

Her  listener  looked  quite  curious.  "  Perhaps  we*d 
better  go  inside,"  said  he. 

"  We'll  go  just  off  the  road,  here,  if  you  please,"  said 
she,  "  and  you  shall  sit  upon  that  rock,  and  I'll  stand  be- 
fore you,  as  good  young  peoi)le  ought  to  siand  before  the 
clergy." 

Mr.  Wellon,  smiling,  was  persuaded  to  her  arrange- 
ment ;  and  when  this  disposition  was  accomplished,  she 
went  on  : — 

"I  got  a  note  from  the  old  priest.  Father  Terence,  who 
is  a  kind  old  man,  and  saw  the  chief  of  the  Sisters,  and 
asked  her,  point-blank, — while  she  was  expecting  me  to 
propose  to  take  the  veil, — whether  Lucy  Bai*bury  was 
there.'" 

(The  listener  was  hearing,  attentively.) 

"  Poor  thing  !  she  couldn't  help  being  a  woman,  if  she 
was  a  nun,  and  she  couldn't  keep  her  blood  down ;  and 
so  she  stammered  '  No ! '" 


MS 


III 


292 


TIIK   NEW    PKIKST. 


«  Did  sho  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Yes  ;  and  1  think,  lioncstly  and  truly ;  and  I'll  tell 
you  wliy  I  think  so.  I  ask('<l  lier,  next,  if  Lucy  had 
been  there ;  and  that  tiinc^  she  di<ln't  answer  at  all  ;  and 
when  she  recovered  herscilf,  referred  me  to  Father 
Nicholas  for  information." 

"  Did  you  see  him  ?  " 

"  Oh  dear  !  no.  I  thou2jht  I  could  do  without  him  ; 
so,  then,  I  and  my  double  came  away,  leavinpf  Father 
O'Toole  to  the  society  of  a  convert  of  his,  whose  voice 
came  over  the  fence  like  a  breath  from  the  shores  of  the 
Great  Republic.  So,  there  is  the  re[)ort  of  my  woman- 
work  !  Can  you  make  any  thing  of  it  ?  " 
lie  sate  in  deep  thought. 

"  I  hope  I  haven't  done  any  harm,"  said  she,  at  length, 
after  waiting,  in  vain,  for  him  to  speak. 

"  Excuse  me,"  said  he  ;  "  I  had  lost  myself; — Oh  ! 
yes,  we  can  use  it ; — but,"  he  added,  "  it's  a  dark  thing, 
and  we  have  to  go  very  carefully,  and,  as  you  say,"  he 

added,  smiling,  '•  icisc/t/. Fatlier  O'Toole  knows,  of 

course  ;  and  Mr.  Naugliton  ?  " 

"  The  Priest  knows  that  I  did  not  find  her,  and  rejoiced 
that  I  was  '  satisfied,'  as  he  supposed  I  was." 

"  And  Mr.  Naugliton  ?  " 

"  He  only  knows  what  the  other  knows  ;  perhaps  not 
that ;  for  his  mind  seemed  to  be  otherwise  occupied  while 
Father  Terence  and  I  were  talking;  and,  all  the  way 
home,  he  never  referred  to  it." 

That  little  rogue,  Fanny  Dare !  talking  so  coolly  of 
]Mr.  Naughton's  mind  being  occupied  ;  and  how  does  she 
suppose  it  was  occupied  ? 

"  That's  good !  "  said  the  clergyman.  "  He  needn't 
know  it,  yet." 


MISS   FANNY   DARE  REPORTS. 


5on 


le,  at  length, 


"  No,  i)oor  man  !     lie  knows  nothing  about  it,"  said 

Fann^  Dure^  — 

The  Parson  sniiled  ;  "  You  say  '  i)oor  man ! '  T-  thac 
tiio  cx|)ression  of  a  woman's  sympathy  because  there  iti 
one  point  in  whieh  his  curiosity  hasn't  been  indulged?" 

Fanny  Dare  slightly  blushed.  A  figure  appeared,  at  a 
distance,  upon  the  road. 

"  There's  Mr.  Naughton,"  she  said,  preparing  to  go. 

The  pastor  went  on  his  way  down  the  harbor,  and 
the  young  lady  back  to  Mrs.  Bar  re's. 

Mr.  Wellon  and  the  IMagistrate,  meeting  half-way,  ex- 
changed a  few  words  with  one  another,  and  then  Mr. 
Naughton  canic^  on,  while  the  Parson  continued  on  his 
way.  A  sound  of  steps  drew  near,  as  of  an  approaching 
magistrate. 

Presently,  from  among  the  shrubbery  and  creepers, 
Miss  Dare's  voice  came  in  song ;  the  air  was  much  like 
that  of  "  Saw  ye  Johnnie  connit  ?  "  ada[)ted  freely,  and 
the  words  of  her  song  were  these  : — 


He  needn't 


llore  poos  Love!     Now  cut  him  clear,- 

A  weight  iibout  his  neck — ! 

If  he  linger  longer  here, 

Our  ship  will  be  a  wreck. 

Overboard !     Overboard  I 

Down  let  him  go ! 

In  the  Deep  he  may  sleep, 

Where  the  corals  grow. 

He  said  he'd  woo  the  gentle  Breeze, — 

A  bright  tear  in  her  eye ; — 

But  she  was  false,  or  hard  to  please. 

Or  he  has  told  a  lie. 

Overboard !     Overboard ! 

Down  in  the  Soa 

He  may  find  a  truer  mind, 

Where  the  mermaids  be. 


294 


THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


Mmh 


He  sang  us  many  a  meny  song, 
While  the  breeze  was  kind ; 
But  he  has  been  lamenting  long 
The  falseness  of  the  Wind. 
Overboard!  Overboard! 
Under  the  Wave 

Let  him  sing,  where  smooth  shells  ring, 
In  the  Ocean's  cave. 

He  may  struggle;  he  may  weep; 

We'll  be  stern  and  cold ; 

He  will  find,  within  the  Deep, 

More  tears  than  can  be  told. 

Overboard !  Overboard  1 

We  will  float  on : 

We  shall  find  a  truer  Wind 

Now  that  he  is  gone." 

The  melody  of  that  oice  of  hers  was  so  sweet  that  it 
did  seem  as  if  the  air  would  keep  it  up,  and  not  lose  it. 

Mr.  Naughton  may  have  turned  himself  about ;  cer- 
tainly he  did  not  go  by,  up  the  road,  that  day. 


HIGH  MASS. 


295 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

HIGH  MASS,  WHOSE  "  INTENTION  "  WAS  FOR  MR.  BANGS, 

AND  A   SERMON. 


Jr.  bangs  remained  at  (and  about)  the  Mis- 
sion premises  at  Bay-Harbor.  So  fast  had  the 
convert  advanced  in  his  zeal  (perhaps  not  yet 
in  knowledge,  which  time  would  assure)  that  he  had 
really  never  yet  been  present  in  a  Roman  Catholic 
Church,  in  the  time  of  worship,  except  on  one  occasion, 
in  the  Cathedral  of  the  Holy  Cross,  "down  in  Fed'ral 
Street,  'n  Boston,  'n'  then  he  on'y  had  a  chance  to  see 
some  holy  characters, — Bishops  and  so  on,  he  supposed, 
with  queer-lookin'  caps  on  their  heads, — may've  ben 
pooty  enough  when  they  used  to  be  the  fashion — and 
crosses  down  their  backs,  and  diff'rent  colored  clo'es  on  ; 
— he  couldn't  git  into  a  pew,  for  they  were  all  chock-full 
of  Irish  pad — native  Americans, — with  pad-locks  on  the 
doors ;  and  he  had  to  come  out  b'fore  meetin'  was  over." 
Mr.  Bangs  was,  in  short,  "  as  fresh  as  a  pun'kin  'th  the 
rind  on,  day  b'fore  Thanksgiving,"  as  he  himself  told 
Father  Terence. 

The  reverend  man,  as  we  have  intimated,  felt  a  little 
awkward,  sometimes,  in  dealing  with  his  novel  subject. 
The  way  of  thinking,  style  of  expression,  temperament, 
of  the  American,  were  all  strange  to  him,  and  he  did  not 


296 


THE  NEW   PIIIEST. 


■'m 


la     •: 


quite  know  liow  to  manage  with  a  scholar  of  the  sort. 
The  very  ease  witli  which  the  sacred  work  went  on  occa- 
sionally perplexed  him.  Mr.  ]^angs  described  his  pro- 
gress as  that  of  "  a  full  team  an*  a  horse  to  let ; "  and  in 
different  words,  changing  the  figure,  (for  Mr.  Bangs, 
though  not  as  v/itty  as  Sheridan,  perhaps,  had  his  way  of 
getting  up  beforehand  little  variations  of  the  same  saying 
or  sentiment ;)  and  he  gave  his  excellent  preceptor  in 
holy  things  to  understand  that  he  "  wanted  to  git  right 
through,  's  quick  's  wus'  consistent." 

We  say  that  he  kept  about  Bay-Harbor ;  for  he  did 
not,  by  any  means,  confine  himself  to  the  place  of  edifi- 
CiUion,  but  did  "  a  little  mite  'n  the  way  o'  huntin'  up 
business,"  (especially  among  Father  Terencre's  co-religion- 
ists,) for  the  purpose,  as  he  said,  of  "  keepin'  up  the  cir- 
culation." He  made  excursions,  therefore,  far  and  near, 
returning,  at  intervals,  to  tilt  his  chair  and  talk  with  the 
reverend  converter. 

Father  O'Toole  had  no  thought  of  losing  his  hopeful 
pupil  by  throwing  obstructions  in  his  way  to  the  truth, 
which  might  dishearten  so  brisk  a  man  ;  and  he  only 
wished  to  do  all  things  with  that  sober  solemnity  that 
suited  his  own  feelings  and  the  dignity  of  his  character. 

On  the  great  occasion  of  public  worship,  which,  as  we 
have  said.  Father  O'Toole  had  in  prospect  for  the  special 
benefit  of  Mr.  Bangs,  he  spared  no  effort  to  have  things 
as  they  ought  to  be.  To  be  sure,  he  could  not  muster  so 
strong  a  body  of  clergy  as  he  would  have  liked,  (for  Fa- 
ther Nicholas  had  an  engagement,  and  was  out  of  the 
way  ;  and  none  of  the  clergy  from  other  stations  hap- 
pened to  be  in  Bay-Harbor,  as  they  sometimes  were,  and 
he  could  not  well  ask  any  one  to  come  for  the  day,)  but 
he  made  a  good  show  of  force  notwithstanding.     He  man- 


HIGH   MASS. 


297 


aged  to  have  his  sacristan,  an  acolyte,  a  couple  of  boys, 
and — a  Master  of  Ceremonies  ;  and  all  in  costume.  This 
latter,  it  must  be  confessed,  was  not  a  clergyman,  as,  ac- 
cording to  rule,  he  should  be  ;  but  he  wore  a  surplice,  and 
that  is  a  good  deal.  The  Master  of  Ceremonies, — where 
there  are  a  dozen  clergy  or  so,  apt  to  forget  some  of  the 
minute  details  of  their  performance, — is  to  know  every 
thing  and  remember  evary  thing,  and  be  on  the  alert  for 
every  thing :  when  to  bow,  when  to  bend  the  knee,  when 
to  take  the  censer  from  the  bearer,  and  give  it  to  the  cel- 
ebrant and  back  again  ;  when  the  deacon  is  to  go  to  the 
priest's  left  hand,  and  when  he  is  to  station  himself  behind 
him  ;  to  take  the  pax  from  the  subdeacon,  and  to  give  it 
to  somebody  else  ;  when  the  sacred  ministers  change 
places,  and  when  they  take  off  their  caps,  and  when  they 
put  them  on  again  ;  when  the  deacon  dotf's  the  folded 
vestment  and  dons  the  stole,  and  when  he  puts  off  the 
stole  again  and  puts  on  tiie  folded  chasuble,  and  so  forth ; 
in  short,  where  everybody  is  to  go,  stand,  kneel,  speak, 
be  still,  and  twenty  things  beside,  ingeniously  contrived 
to  give  everybody  something  to  do,  and  that  something 
different  from  what  his  neighbor  is  engaged  with. 

Father  O'Toole  might  have  got  along  very  well  with- 
out such  an  official,  and  indeed,  except  that  he  was  deter- 
mined to  go  beyond  himself,  would  not  have  thought  of 
introducing  one,  any  more  than  of  inviting  a  cardinal  over 
the  water  to  help  him ;  however,  he  had  one  for  this  occa- 
sion, and  drilled  him  to  the  best  of  his  ability,  beforehand. 
He  gave  the  important  functionary,  also,  a  small  paper  to 
keep  about  him,  on  which  the  priest  himself  had  written, 
in  printing  letters,  some  chief  and  principal  directions 
and  hints,  for  the  information  that  he  was  to  impart,  and 
the  signs  that  he  was  to  make  to  himself,  the  Very  Rev- 
erend Celebrant. 


i;  ' 


r  -v-v 


298 


THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


Supported  by  these  accessory  and  inft;rior  ministers, 
the  worthy  Priest  came,  very  red  and  dignified,  out  of  the 
sacristy,  and  proceeded  to  the  choir,  in  orderly  ari'ay,  the 
organ  (a  hand-organ,  left  on  trial  in  the  place,  with  a 
view  to  its  purcha.-e)  playing  Handel's  "  Tantuin,  ergo." 
It  was  soraetiraes  said  of  Father  Terence,  "  that  when  he 
got  his  great  looks  on,  the  Governor  reviewing  the 
troops  was  a  fool  to  uin  ;  "  this  day  some  thought  that  he 
outdid  his  Excellency  and  himself  put  together.  He 
took  the  Holy  Water  at  the  sacristy  door  with  less  of 
honest  "  recollection  "  than  was  customary  with  him,  and 
he  put  on  his  cap  again,  after  that  important  ceremony, 
to  march  to  the  altar  at  the  head  of  his  troops,  with  the 
decided  gesture  of  a  Lieutenant-General  or  Field  Mar- 
shal— I  mean  such  an  one  as  wears  the  uniform  or  bears 
the  baton  onl  '■  in  peaceful  fields  of  trainings  and  evolu- 
tion, and  is  com[)etcnt  to  visit  the  Greenwich  Pensioners 
or  review  the  Honorable  Artillery  Company  of  London. 
So  did  Father  O'Toole,  on  this  great  day,  in  the  eyes  of 
Mr.  Bangs,  who  was  favored  with  a  most  advantageous 
place  for  witnessing  every  thing. 

The  good  priest  went  down,  at  the  lowest  step  of  the 
altar,  with  his  white-robed  flock  of  attendants  about  him, 
in  successive  alightings,  like  sea-gulls  round  one  of  our 
ponds  in  the  Barrens.  He  went  through  his  crossing  and 
his  confiteor  and  absolution  as  usual,  except  that,  with  the 
honest  solemnity  that  he  commonly  carried  into  the  con- 
fession of  his  sins  and  other  solemn  acts  of  worship,  was 
mingled  to-day  a  flurry,  occasioned  by  his  consciousness 
of  the  unusual  coraplicatedness  of  his  arrangements. 

There  was  some  blundering  on  the  part  of  his  subordi- 
nates, in  bringing  him  the  censer,  and  taking  and  giving 
the  pax,  and  things  of  that  kind.     The  master  of  cere- 


ii)ii 


HIGH   MASS. 


200 


IS  and  givinj? 


raonie.-?  j?ot  tlie  candles  put  out  when  they  should  Imve 
bet'n  lighted,  and  so  on  ;  but  when  he  eaine  into  direct 
relation  to  the  Priest  himself,  he  was  as  inconvenient  and 
obstructive  as  an  unaccustomed  sword,  getting  between  its 
wearer's  legs.  The  Church,  with  a  wise  appreciation  of 
its  children,  treats  them  as  children  ought  to  be  treated — 
leaves  to  their  memories  such  weightier  matters  as  the 
degree  of  inclination — viz:  "moderate"  or  "profound," 
. — and  to  be  sure  and  cr^^s  the  right  thumb  over  the  left, 
when  one  stands,  junctis  manibus,  at  the  altar,  and  so 
forth  ;  but  how  to  find  his  book,  or  take  it,  or  know  where 
to  read  in  it,  she  does  not  expect  of  the  priest,  but  com- 
mits to  the  memory  of  the  master  of  ceremonies,  when 
there  is  one. 

The  prompter  was  always  inclined  to  keep  at  the  most 
respectful  distance,  except  that  once  he  rushed  zealously 
to  the  celebrant's  side,  to  assist  him  in  rising,  and  planted 
his  foot  so  dexterously  on  some  part  of  the  sacerdotal 
dress,  as  to  counteract  his  own  purpose  and  the  best 
efforts  of  Father  O'Toole.  He  proceeded,  with  the  most 
excellent  intentions,  to  take  the  book,  at  the  proper  time, 
and  to  point  out  the  places ;  but,  in  the  first  case,  he  got 
the  edges  of  the  leaves  to  the  left  hand,  instead  of  the 
right, — (lamentable  blunder !) — and,  in  correcting  it,  got 
the  book  upside  down, — (a  thing  of  less  consequence)  ; — 
in  the  second  case,  he  pointed  out,  with  the  most  zealous 
hand,  the  wrong  place,  and  turned  the  leaves  at  the  wrong 
time. 

In  short,  the  day  being  warm,  and  the  congregation 
large,  and  Mr.  Bangs's  spiritual  welfare  depending  upon 
the  performance,  the  worthy  priest  was  hot  and  flustered, 
before  he  had  half  finished  his  morning's  work,  and  his 
attendants  were  in  a  state  of  confusion  and  depression, 


m 


300 


THE   NKW   riilKST. 


'  n 


!,  ^-i'. 


:i  jvillJ' 


.,:i  ! 


i  *^'  *■( 


:(■-■' 


i»! 


which  ma<le  them  bow  whr:i  thoy  ought  to  have  made 
gomiHt'xion,  (and  tliat  on  botli  knees,)  and  kept  them  sit- 
tin;j;  when  they  oiij^ht  to  have  been  on  their  feet. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  or^an  turned  and  j^ave  its 
sounds,  and  the  singers  sang,  sometimes  unaccompanied, 
and  sometimes  in  concert  with  the  instrument,  histily. 

It  was  not  a  part  of  Fatlier  O'Toole's  usual  i)ractice  to 
have  a  sermon ;  indeed,  the  current  report  of  him  was 
that  he  was  a  "  tarribhi  hirn'd  man  entirely,  and,  ow  that 
account" — (singular  effect  of  a  cause !) — "  had  been  re- 
commended by  his  spiritual  superior  not  to  preach."  He 
was  satislied,  for  the  most  part,  with  ofluiiiig  uj>  his 
plain  mass  and  prayers  ;  iiiid,  in  church,  he  seldom  said 
a  word  outside  of  the  Ordo  and  Canon,  except  to  publish 
banns  and  give  notices.  He  was  not  in  the  habit  of  de- 
nouncing from  the  Altar — kindly  man  ! — either  his  Protes- 
tant neighbors  or  backsliders  of  his  own. 

On  this  day,  he  felt  called  nj)on  to  stir  up  the  gift  that 
was  in  him,  and  deliver  himself  of  a  message.  His  text 
was  in  Psalms,  Ixvii.  32 :  Ethiopia  prcBveniet  manm 
ejus  Deo.  Ethiopia  shall  soon  stretch  out  her  hands  to 
God.  From  these  words  of  Holy  Writ,  he  proceeded  to 
establish  the  following  points, — though  he  did  not  divide 
his  discourse  into  any  heads :  First,  that  there  was  only 
one  church,  and  the  Pope  was  the  head  of  it,  as  a  neces- 
sary consequence  ;  second,  that  the  Mass  was  beneficial 
to  the  dead  and  the  living,  by  reason  that  both  of  those 
classes  of  men  could  secure  indulgences  for  every  mass ; 
third,  that  Latin  was  the  language  lor  the  niO-ss,  as  any 
man  could  see  by  listening  to  the  words  of  the  text ; 
fourth,  that  the  glorious  Mother  of  God  was  rapidly  gain- 
ing that  preeminence  that  the  whole  world,  as  well  as 
Aythiopia,  would  soon  give  up  to  her ;  fifth,  that  convents 


hkjII  mass. 


301 


wore  not  bad,  and  no  good  Cjitliolic  would  think  of  foix!- 
mrr  nwy  one  to  ;^o  into  a  convent,  Catholic  or  l*roteslant, 
(upon  tliis  he  dwelt  Ion;^est ;)  sixtli,  that  confession  was 
not  that  bad  thing  that  was  rej)resented,  but  was  a  great 
Htiinnhjs  to  the  soul  to  keep  it  down,  and  was  it  not 
a  great  convenience  for  i>aying  the  dues,  twice  in  the 
year  ? 

Having  thus  exhausted  the  subject,  argumentatively, 
he  proceeded  to  a  i>racti('al  application  of  it.  He  said  he 
need  not  be  telling  hi^  audi(3nce  how  long  ago  those  words 
were  spoken,  for  they  would  not  be  able  to  recollect  it ; 
nor  where  Aythiopia  was,  because  not  one  of  them  knew, 
most  likely.  (At  this  point,  he  remembered  that  Mr. 
Bangs  possessed  a  good  deal  of  general  information,  and 
cast  a  rather  uneasy  glance  at  him.  The  latter,  begin- 
ning, in  a  low  voice,  to  "  bound  "  the  country  in  question, 
was  put  to  silence  by  certain  truculent  looks,  and  other 
more  threatening  demonstrations,  on  the  part  of  some  of 
his  neighbors.) 

The  reverend  preacher  went  on,  immediately,  to  say 
that  there  was  another  country  they  had  heard  of,  whose 
name  ended  also  in  A,  and  began  with  the  same  letter, 
mostly,  as  that  in  the  text,  which  was  beginning  to  stretch 
forth  her  hands  to  God  and  the  Church ;  that  converts 
were  beginning  to  come  in,  as  would  soon  be  seen  ; — 
(some  of  Mr.  Bangs's  neighbors  here  looked  dubiously  at 
him,  taking  pains  to  see  him  fairly  down  to  his  feet ;) — • 
that  St.  Patrick  was  the  great  converter, — under  the 
Empress  of  the  Universe, — (in  which  connection,  he  di- 
gressed a  little  to  prove  that  that  great  man  was  an  Irish- 
man, and  not  a  Frenchman,  much  less  a  Scotsman, — 
this  argument,  perhaps,  might  better  have  had  its  place 
among  the  logical  deductions  from  the  text,  than  in  the 


i,,M 


'      ! 


il.h 


iV 


m 


I   !.         . 

'! 

ii 

*  ; 

1 

1^ 

biiii 

1 

302 


THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


w'ip|)li('ation,  but  did  not  come  r.miss  wliore  it  was  ;) — that 
th<^  coiinlry  In;  spokft  of,  rosomhlcd  that  mentioned  in  tho 
text  in  another  r(»s|)e('t,  as  havirif^a  {^rcnt  number  of  black 
men  in  it, — tliough  there  were  many  that  might  properly 
be  calh'd  white. 

Finally,  he  applied  his  exhortnlion  closely,  by  reproving 
many  of  his  hearers,  who  were  imperfect  Catholics,  for 
being  too  soon  for  stretching  out  their  hands  to  shile- 
laghs,  and  the  like,  much  as  if  they  were  brute  bastes, 
instead  of  Catholics ;  and  he  hoped  they  would  sooner 
stretch  out  their  hands  to  God.  So  effective  was  this 
latter  part  of  the  discourse,  that  not  a  few  of  the  congre- 
gation, after  the  manner  of  their  race,  made  a  public  ex- 
hibition of  themselves,  by  way  of  hiding  from  the  pastoral 
eye,  and  the  ecjnsorious  looks  of  neighbors.  Mr.  Bangs, 
during  these  last  sentences,  had  sunk  his  head  upon  the 
back  of  the  seat  before  him,  and  mad?  an  occasional  noise, 
which  the  good-natured  speaker,  and  other  indulgent  per- 
sons, took  to  be  the  sound  of  a  choking,  by  excess  of  feel- 
ing. Some,  indeed,  thought  that  the  American  had  gone 
to  sleep. — The  sound  ii  v  have  been  one  still  less  appro- 
priate.— We  leave  the  question  to  the  discrimination  of  the 
reader;  only  saying,  further,  that  Mr.  Bangs  confessed, 
afterwards,  that  "  it  was  pleggy  close  in  there,  fact,  an* 
consid'r'ble  'f  a  smell  'f  incense  an'  tobacca,  an'  what  not." 

It  was  an  evidence  of  the  ease  w^ith  which  a  public 
sjteaker  is  misunderstood,  that  some  of  the  audience,  after 
going  out, — although  one  wop'd  think  that  the  reference 
to  America  had  been  sufficiently  explicit,  capped,  as  it 
was,  by  the  allusion  to  the  slaves, — yet  some  of  the  more 
literary  of  tlie  audience,  standing  at  corners,  drew  the 
conclusion,  from  what  they  had  heard,  that,  as  -^ythiopia 
and  ^yrin  bes^an  with  the  same  lett(;rs,  the  latter  was  soon 


HIGH  MASS. 


303 


rs,  drew  the 


to  throw  off  the  bloody  English  yoke,  and  set  her  foot 
on  the  proud,  heretical  tyrant's  throat. 

The  excellent  priest,  when  all  was  done,  had  recovered 
his  habitual  kindly  equanimity,  and,  instead  of  looking 
vain  or  conceited  after  the  display  of  reason  and  rhetoric 
that  had  just  come  from  him,  honestly  took  upon  him  a 
double  share  of  humility,  which  ought  to  have  disarmed 
hostile  criticism  of  his  sermon,  had  there  been  any  such. 
He  felt  satisfied  and  comfortable  now,  having  felt  h's  own 
force,  and  made  proof  of  his  priesthood.  Cordially  ho 
saluted  his  ministers,  on  his  return  to  the  sacristy,  made 
a  hearty  bow  to  the  cross,  and,  without  taking  off  his 
vestments,  fell  earnestly  down  upon  his  knees,  and  made 
his  llianksgiving. 

He  helped  Mr.  Bangs  to  a  correct  appreciation  of  the 
whole,  by  8up[)lying  information  on  several  parts,  and, 
among  others,  he  exjjlained  to  him  that  white  was  the 
color  appropriated  to  festivals  of  Our  Lord,  Our  Lady, 
and  saints  not  martyrs ;  that,  for  seasons  of  penitence  and 
others,  different  colors  were  appropriate- 
Mr.  Bangs  being  anxious  to  know  the  penitential  color, 
and  being  told  that  it  was  violet,  explained  his  curiosity 
by  saying  that  "  he  had  heard  tell  of  folks  lookin'  blue, 
and  had  thought,  likely,  that  was  where  it  come  from." 
His  next  remark  was  more  to  his  credit :  he  "  presumed 
tliat  violet  come  from  violatin'  our  dooty,  most  likely." 
Father  Terence  complimented  him  on  the  derivation,  say- 
ing tliat  it  "  had  not  occurred  to  himself, — or,  indeed,  he'd 
forgotten  it,  having  that  much  on  his  mind, — but,  indeed, 
it  was  much  that  way  that  the  word  sea,  in  Latin,  came 
Irom  maris  Stella,*  (that's  Maria,  of  course,)  because  she's 
the  queen  of  it ;  and  it  was  a  good  offer  at  a  Catholic 
derivation." 

*  Star  cf  ilie  sea. 


i!:; 


304 


THE  NEW   PRIEST. 


1    t, 


■*■' 


I  ^  r : 


t    • 


i  -1 


Iji. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 


THE    GRAVEYARD    MAKES    STRANGE    MEETINGS. 


■/)HE  day  appointed  for  the  funeral  of  Granny 
^  Frank's  remains  came  on.     The  dinner-bell  at 


Mr.  Worner's  had  rung  some  time  ago ;  and  there 
had  been  flying  for  some  hours,  at  half-way  up  tiie  flag- 
staff near  the  church,  the  white  cross  on  the  red  ground, 
which  is  the  signal  for  divine  service  ;  in  this  case,  (half- 
hoisted,)  of  a  funeral.  The  flagstaff  stands  at  a  good  two 
or  three  minutes'  walk  from  the  church  door,  upon  the 
highest  point  of  the  cliff  that  overhangs  the  water,  at  the 
height  of  a  hundred  and  fifty  or  two  hundred  feet,  from 
which  the  signal  gleams  out  far  and  wide, — down  harbor, 
up  harbor,  over  to  Indian  Point.  The  rounded  back  of 
this  cliff,  landward,  is  like  the  round  back  of  a  breaker 
fixed  forever  ;  and,  at  a  musket-shot  behind  it,  is  another, 
whose  upright  front  we  see,  stayed,  in  like  manner,  ere  it 
broke.  Between  the  two,  half-way  from  each,  passes  the 
road, — as  Israel's  road  through  the  Red  Sea  is  sometimes 
painted, — between  two  mighty  waves. 

The  flag  went  doAvn,  the  funeral  procession  came  along 
down  the  short  hill  beyond  the  church,  with  eight  men 
bearers,  and  the  children  from  the  schools ;  the  rest  being 
mostly  women.  It  passed,  like  a  long  sigh,  into  the  church 
door  as  the  priest  met  it  there,  and  disappeared. 


THE  GRAVEYARD  MAKES   STRANGE  MEETINGS.  305 


lETINGS. 


At  the  same  time,  another  scene  was  going  on  at  the 
side,  unnoticed,  very  likely,  except  to  t^iose  who  had  a 
part  in  it. 

The  little  road  from  Marchants'  Cove  comes  steeply 
up  into  the  main,  just  opposite  the  church- tower;  and  up 
this  road  Mr.  Debree  was  coming  from  Mr.  Dennis 
O'Rourke's  house,  which  lies  at  its  foot.  He  stopped  at 
midway,  seeing  the  funeral,  and,  having  saluted  it  respect- 
fully, stood  still  until  it  should  have  pass^jd  into  the 
church. 

Mrs.  Barre  and  little  Mary  were  coming  from  the 
other  quarter,  (Frank's  Cove,)  hand  in  hand.  They 
came  to  the  point  of  meeting  of  the  two  roads,  opposite 
the  church-porch,  just  as  the  corpse  went  in,  but  did  not 
join  the  company ;  and  when  the  space  was  empty  on 
which  the  mourners  stood  but  now,  still  were  the  mother 
and  the  child  on  the  same  spot. 

To  little  Mary  the  solemn  tramp  of  children,  and  of 
elders,  and  the  black  pall,  typifying  the  night  which  had 
closed  a  long  day,  shut  out  all  other  objects  ;  and  she  held, 
with  both  her  hands,  the  one  her  mother  gave  her,  and 
looked  in  silence  on  the  silent  show. 

When  it  was  all  gone  by,  the  sadness  had  passed  with 
it,  and  she  came  back  to  present  life.  The  point  at  which 
she  entered  it  again  was  here. 

"  How  cold  your  hand  is,  dear  mamma !  Are  you 
going  to  die  ?  " 

Her  mother's  hand  must  have  been  icy  cold,  for  it  was 
one  of  those  moments,  with  her,  when  the  blood  is  all 
wanted  between  the  heart  and  brain.  The  Priest,  whom 
she  had  sought  and  found,  and  by  whom  she  had  been 
cast  off  and  put  aside,  who  had  met  her  little  daughter  in 
the  path,  and  to  whose  hand  she  had  sent  the  letter,  was 

20 


,  ! 


\  I 


Hi 


i 


w 


,^^-..-«.^  ^■,. .— , 


r'    a 


r. 


I  '*■  !  ^ 


rri. 


306 


THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


Standing  but  a  hundred  feet  from  her,  on  liis  way  towards 
the  spot  where  she  had  set  herself.  There  is  a  point, — 
one  chance  in  million  millions, — where  the  wide  wander- 
ing comet  may  meet  a  world  and  whelm  it ;  (God  will 
see  to  that ;)  but  here  was  a  point  at  which  she  met  this 
Roman  priest  again.  Drawing  her  child  up  against  her 
knees,  she  turned,  and  in  the  middle  of  the  way,  stood,  in 
gentle,  sorrowing,  noble  womannood,  in  front  of  Mr.  De- 
bree,  as  he  came  up. 

With  her  pale  face,  the  dark  hair  coming  smoothly 
down,  and  her  full  eye  lighted  with  a  soft  brightness — her 
paleness,  too,  set  off  by  her  close  black  bonnet — she  looked 
very  handsome — ay,  and  more — as  she  stood  there,  draw- 
ing her  child  up  against  her  knees  ;  and  this  was  one  of 
the  great  times  in  life.  It  matters  not  for  the  surround- 
ings ;  it  may  be  Marathon  to  Miltiades,  or  Thermopylas 
to  Leonidas,  or  Basil  to  John  Huss,  or  Worms  to  Luther, 
or  a  blind  alley  to  the  drunkard's  daughter,  or  the  plain, 
square-cornered  city  street  for  the  deserted  maiden,  or  as 
it  was  here. 

He  slowly  came  up,  as  pale  as  melting  snow,  straight 
up  the  hill,  and,  as  if  there  were  no  other  being  in  the 
world,  or  rather,  as  if  he  knew  exactly  who  were  there, 
he  never  looked  at  Mrs.  Barre  or  the  child,  but  as  he 
passed  into  tlie  main  road,  bowed  his  face,  all  agonized, 
and  said,  as  he  had  said  in  Mad  Cove,  "  I  cannot !  I  can- 
not ! " 

She  did  not  wait  there,  but  raising  up  her  eyes  in 
mute  appeal  to  God,  as  if  she  had  done  her  duty,  and 
needed  help  and  comfort,  for  her  work  had  made  her 
weary,  she  turned  away,  and,  with  a  very  hurrying  step, 
went,  as  the  funeral  had  gone,  into  the  church. 

Having  risen  from   her  private  prayer,  she  had  sate 


THE  GRAVEYARD  MAKES  STRANGE  MEETINGS.  307 


down,  and  was  composing  herself  to  take  a  part  in  the 
most  solemn  service  that  was  going  forward.  She  rose— 
for  they  were  singing — the  children  there  all  sing — "  As 
soon  as  thou  scatterest  them  they  are  even  as  a  sleep  and 
fade  away,  suddenly — ."  It  was  very  sweet  and  sad 
music,  and  JNIrs.  Barrc  had  fresh  memories  of  losses ;  but 
suddenly,  at  that  very  word,  to  many  a  person's  astonish- 
ment in  the  church — for  even  at  the  burial-service  many 
a  one  had  seen  her  come  and  saw  her  now — she  looked  at 
either  side  of  her ;  then  all  along  the  rows  of  children  in 
the  foremost  seats,  and  then,  laying  down  her  Book,  went 
softly  and  hurriedly  out  again,  as  she  had  come  in. 

This  way  and  that  way,  on  the  outside,  she  gazed  ;  but 
there  was  no  sight  of  little  Mary,  of  whom,  as  the  reader 
has  already  fancied,  she  was  in  search. 

"  I  sid  'er  up  i'  the  churchyard,  ma'am,"  said  a  girl, 
who,  happily,  had  not  yet  jiassed  by,  divining  the  mother's 
thoughts  and  fears  ;  and  before  the  words  were  fairly 
said,  the  mother  was  gliding  pp  the  steep  way  to  the 
j)lace,  (pro|)erly  c/rave-ytivd,  for  it  was  not  about  the 
church.)  A  woman — one  of  those  good-natured  souls 
who  can  never  see  trouble  without  leaving  every  thing  to 
help  it — had  been  moved  by  her  distracted  looks,  and  had 
followed  her  distracted  steps,  but  at  a  slower  rate,  and 
found  her  seated  by  the  entrance  of  the  yard,  looking 
steadily  and  straight  before  her.  The  neighbor,  (who 
was  no  other  than  Prudence  Barbury,)  said,  "  Shall  I  go 
fetch  the  little  maid,  ma'am  ?  I  see  she,  yonder,  wi'  the 
praste,  Mr.  Debree,  they  calls  un." 

To  her  astonishment  and  bewilderment, — connecting 
one  thing  with  another, — the  neighbor  had  her  offer 
kindly  declined. 

"  No,  no,  thank  you ;  don't  call  her,"  said  Mrs.  Barre. 


1  <i 


m 


;  u 


•■1 


Hi 


•■'I  I'l 


t  •] 


'"  !;.■■■  . 


308 


TiiK  NKW  ruiKsr. 


How  strange  it  was  <l><*^t  having  missed  her  and  sought 
for  her,  the  mother  shoukl  be  satisfied  when  she  had 
found  her  in  sueh  iiands  ! 

"  Siie's  brought  him  to  my  httlc  boy's  grave,"  ^^^^^  Mrs. 
Rarre,  again. 

"  Don't  *ee  want  any  thing,  ma'am  ? "  in(|uired  the 
neighbor  next ;  and  this  otVer  was  (U'elined  with  so  much 
feeling  evidently  crowding  up  behind  the  words,  that  the 
neighbor  letl  wondering,  for  sympathy. 

Thus  she  sate  still  ;  JMary  being  inside  the  inclosure 
with  the  priest.  How  strange  it  must  have  been  to  her 
too,  that  while  she  luM-self  was  so  far  ai)art,  the  child  had 
secured  for  herself  the  eompanionshi])  of  this  man  ! 
Truly,  how  bless<Hl  a  thing  it  is  that  there  are  these  chil- 
dren, in  this  evil  and  formal  life,  to  break  through,  some- 
times, and  snatch  with  their  sure  and  determined  hands, 
flowers  that  for  elders  only  blush  and  are  fragrant  within 
their  safe  gard(Mi-li(Hls  and  borders  ! 

IMeantime  there  came  up  the  ste(^p  hill  the  nmsic  of  the 
hymn  which  here  they  sing,  or  used  to  sing,  from  the 
churchdoor  up  to  the  grave. 

Up  th(i  steep  drung  with  wattled  fences  on  each  side 
securing  the  gardens  of  different  owiK'rs,  they  climb  and 
sing,  pausing  after  each  verse,  and  thus  they  reach  the 
graveyard  on  the  summit  of  the  cliff  or  rocky  hill,  which, 
beginning  nearly  o[)posite  the  flagstaff  cliff,  goes  down 
the  harbor,  sheltering  the  clmrch  from  the  north  wind  a;^ 
it  goes.  The  graveyard  has  but  a  single  outlet,  and, 
however  it  happened,  so  it  was,  that  the  funeral  had  filled 
that  single  pas^^age,  and  passed  with  the  priest  in  his 
surplice  at  the  head,  into  the  humble,  waste-looking  })lace 
of  burial,  before  JNIr.  Debree  had  left  it.  There  were  a 
few  trees,  here  and  there,  as  small  as  on  the  uninclosed 


m  she   luul 


music  of  the 


TIIK  GKAVKYAKI)   MAKKS   STRANGE  MEKTINGS.  HOO 

land  beyond,  and  bcliind  ono  of  tlH'S(3  tlic,  Romish   prio.st 
had  taken  stand,  an<l  lilHc,  Mary  staid  witii  liim. 

It  is  not  to  ho,  siip)K)S('d  tiiat  so  stran^(!  a  visitor  should 
pass  unnotit'(Ml,  allo;2;('th('r.  Tlirrc  \v<'ro  sonic  worncMi  in 
the  i'ompany  that  cotdd  not  keep  their  indipiation  down 
at  the  si;j^ht  "of  tlie  like  of  him  in  their  chun^hyard." 
They  did  not  know  how  th(^  service  could  go  on  until  he 
had  been  "  asked  his  manin." 

The  knowled^jje,  however,  that  Mrs.  liarre,  whose  little 
danj^hter  was  in  company  with  the  obnoxious  strarifi^cr, 
had  joined  tin;  fiuieral  procession,  spread  itself  soon,  and 
tenth'd  to  (piit^t  the  irritation  ;  the  grave  voic(!  of  Skipper 
Oeorge, — who,  for  his  nephew's  sake,  was  in  the  funeral 
train, — quelled  it. 

"  N'y,  friends,"  he  said,  turning  round,  in  a  pause  of 
the  singing,  (and  all  w(!re  silent  as  he  spoke,)  "'c'sagood 
gentleman  ef  'e  be  a  Uojnan  itself.  'E's  been  i)roper 
fcelun  to  me,  sunce  I've  Jihad  my  loss  ;  an'  'e  never  med- 
dled wi'  my  religion.  It  wasn'  make  believe,  I  knows 
well,  by  the  feel." 

The  hymn  went  on,  ending  with  the  Gloria  Patri  as 
they  reached  the  grave. 

A  good  many  eyes,  during  the  sid)lime  services  at  the 
open  earth,  turned  toward  the  stranger  very  likely ;  but 
whosoever  saw  him,  saw  him  respectfully  standing,  un- 
covered, like  the  persons  immediately  engaged  in  the 
burial. 

liy  the  time  the  olfiee  was  (!nded,  and  the  peo[de  began 
to  turn  upon  their  heels  and  set  their  caps  to  go  to  their 
several  homes,  and  while  it  was  asked  "  Why  !  didn't  'ee 
see  un  ?  "  it  was  discovered  that  Mr.  Debree  had  been 
the  first  to  leave  the  place,  and  was  gone.  In  that  ([uar 
ter  of  the  yard  where  he  had  been,  the  mother  was  se(.'V 


h'^ 


w 


i  •! 


'    I 


3     1.,    A 

ril 


i? 


I    I 


310 


THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


with  her  recovered  child,  stooping  over  a  grave  smaller 
than  that  just  filled,  and  some  of  the  nearer  by-standers 
(nearer,  perhaps,  not  quite  by  accident,)  overheard 
Mary  saying  that  she  "had  showed  him  dear  little 
brother's  place."  The  general  opinion  expressed  by  one 
mouth  and  assented  to  by  others,  was  to  the  effect  that 
that  foreign  priest  was  to  the  speaker's  "  seemin,"  and  to 
the  general  "  seemin,  a  relation,  someway — very  like  a 
brother;  mubbe  the  lady  was  some  o'  they  kind  herself, 
once  ; "  but  then^  that  "  he  never  took  no  notice  to  she," 
was  admitted. 

The  little  child  was  very  still,  while  her  mother,  hav- 
ing risen,  stood  looking  on  the  mound  of  earth  which  wore 
no  greenness  yet.  She  gave  her  mother  time  to  make  to 
herself  again,  out  of  that  clay,  a  fair  boy ;  and  to  fondle 
him  with  motherly  hands,  and  deck  him  with  his  disused 
garments  once  again  ;  or  time  to  gather  at  this  grave 
the  memories  of  other  sadnesses.  Some  of  the  female 
neighbors  sought,  meanwhile,  to  solve  their  question  by 
asking  little  Mary,  apart,  "  ef  that  praste — that  strange 
gentleman — was  her  uncle,"  in  vain  ;  she  did  not  know. 
The  pastor,  looking  in  that  direction,  said  nothing  to 
them,  and  left  them  to  each  other ;  and  when  all  were 
gone  away,  except  the  eldest  son  of  the  last  dead,  Mrs. 
Barre  kissed  the  green  sod,  as  little  Mary  also  did,  and 
they  two,  hand  in  hand,  departed. 

"  I  asked  him  to  go  up  and  see  it,  mamma,"  the  child 
said,  "  and  so  he  went,  and  he  was  very  kind,  and  he 
cried ;  I  saw  him  cry,  only  he  didn't  talk  much,  and  1 
think  he  doesn't  know  how  to  lead  little  children  by  the 
hand,  as  Mr.  Wellon  does." 


MR.  WELLON  TRIES  TO  DO  SOMETHING. 


311 


CHAPTER   XXXIV. 


MR.    WELLON    TRIES    TO    DO    SOMETHING. 


S  things  stood,  it  appeared  that,  if  any  tiling  was 
to  be  done  about  Lucy  Barbury,  (to  any  pur- 
pose,) Mr.  Weljon  must  set  it  going ;  for  the 
Magistrate's  operations  were  rather  desultory,  and  without 
satisfactory  result,  or  promise  of  it ;  and  the  magistrates 
from  Bay- Harbor  and  elsewhere  had  only  consulted  and 
dei)uted  one  of  their  number  to  come  to  the  spot  and  in- 
quire and  examine  ;  and  since  his  return  from  Peterport, 
(where  he  had  gravely  and  dignifiedly  walked  about,  and 
taken  notes  and  compared  them  with  Mr.  Naughton's, 
and  heard  depositions  of  the  father  and  such  of  the 
neighbors  as  knew  nothing  about  it,)  the  magistracy  nad 
drawn  in  its  head  and  claws,  and  left  only  the  Peterport 
Stipendiary  (shall  we  say  its  tail  ?)  in  action. 

Yet  now  was  the  time  to  do,  if  any  thing  was  to  be 
done.  A  watch  had  been  secretly  kept  up  by  trusty 
men  (young  Mr.  IJrston,  .Jesse,  and  many  others  in  turn) 
about  the  Priests'  premises  in  Bay-Harbor,  from  the 
afternoon  in  which  Ladford's  information  had  been  re- 
ceived ;  but  there  ought  to  be  a  search  there,  immedi- 
ately ;  and  next,  wherever  else  there  might  be  occasion. 

The  difficulties  in  the  way  were  very  considerable,  and 
even  formidable  ;  but  Mr.  Wellon  was  an  Englishman, 


*^'''^il 


312 


TIIK  NEW  PRIEST. 


.]  IK: 


1 


<    vl 


:v;J 


'■■■\ 


lil^'trM 


! 


i| 


'\U 


"• 


stout  and  honlthy  in  mind  and  heart  as  in  body  ;  ho  was 
a  thorouj^li  friend,  and  (what  takes  in  everythin"^  in  one) 
he  was  a  faithful  pastor.  Accordinn;ly,  he  told  Gilpin, 
,  "  We  can't  take  care  of  consequences  ;  we  must  make  out 
what  our  duty  is,  and  do  it,  to  our  very  best,  and  leave 
what  conies  after  to  God." 

Attorney-general  Kay  came  to  Bay-Harbor ;  and,  not 
long  attei  his  being  settled  at  his  lodgings,  Mr.  Wellon 
made  his  way  to  him  and  secured  an  appointment  for  a 
private  interview.  At  this,  he  went  through  his  case, 
which  the  lawyer  heard  attentively,  and  without  asking 
a  question  until  the  statem(;nt  was  ended  ;  making  notes 
and  taking  down  the  names  of  the  different  persons  who 
could  testify,  and  the  nature  of  the  evidence  they  could 
give.  The  Parson  went  over,  with  the  lawyer,  the  argu- 
ments of  probability.  The  Attorney  was  of  opinion  that 
the  girl  might  have  gone,  of  her  own  free  will,  but  that 
she  had  not  done  so  was  argued  by  the  fact  that  there 
had  been  no  communication  from  her  since, — a  thing 
which  the  priests  or  "  religious  "  having  her  under  their 
control  would  have  been  anxious  to  have  her  make,  icJher 
than  underlie  the  suspicion  of  a  felony  instead  of  a  mis- 
demeanor ;  then,  that  they  had  not  carried  her  off  against 
her  will,  he  thought,  because  of  the  want  of  motive; — 
she  was  no  heiress. 

The  clergyman  argued  steadily ;  mentioned  again  young 
Urston's  relation  to  Lucy  Barbury  ;  his  abandonment  of 
the  preparation  for  the  priesthood ;  Mrs.  Calloran's  char- 
acter ; — but  his  great  argument  was  the  fact  that  she  had 
been  at  the  nunnery.  The  iawyer  showed  him  how  the 
arguments  of  probability  affected  the  fact :  "  A  suspicion, 
on  the  whole  unlikely,  is  to  be  established  by  what  sort 
of  evidence  ?     You  bring  evidence  to  show  (imperfectly, 


MK.  WKi-LON   TRIES  TO  DO  SOMETHING.         313 


but  as  far  as  it  shows  any  thing)  that  the  girl,  whose  in- 
tercourse with  her  lover  had  been  broken  up,  of  her  own 
accord,  (for  she  went  alone,  in  a  crazy  fit,  if  you  will,) 
went  away  from  her  fatiier's  house,  and  along  a  road  that 
leads  to  her  lover's  door,  and  to  the  water-side ;  no  pre- 
vious concert,  nor  any  meeting  or  understanding  since, 
between  the  two  young  people,  appears ;  (the  young 
man's  whole  conduct  and  all  the  circumstances  go  against 
it ;)  that  road  leads  by  her  lover's  house  to  the  water- 
side ;  the  next  day  a  cap  belonjpng  to  her,  and  which 
had  been  worn  by  her  on  the  day  of  her  disappearance,  is 
picked  up  on  the  shore ;  another  article  of  dress  is  picked 
up  from  the  water  later.  That  case,  as  it  stands,  looks 
more  like  one  of  suicide  in  a  fit  of  derangement,  than 
any  thing.  Then  you've  got  some  other  things  to  bring 
in :  the  prayer-book  burned,  and  Mrs.  Calloran's  equivo- 
cations about  it.  Now,  of  these,  you  may  suppose  the 
book  to  have  been  in  her  hand,  and  dropped  on  her  way 
to  the  fatal  spot ;  and  the  woman's  different  stories,  (if 
she  had  found  it  and  wreaked  her  dislike  uj)on  it,)  would 
not  be  very  strange." 

The  clergyman  listened  sadly  to  this  presentment  of  the 
case,  which  had,  no  doubt,  many  a  time  forced  itself  upon 
him  and  been  thrust  out  of  his  mind. 

"  Now,  on  the  other  hand,"  said  the  lawyer,  "given,  an 
old  nurse  of  resolute  character  and  a  bigot  to  her  faith, 
and  a  father  fond  of  his  son  ;  both — granny  and  father — 
disappointed  at  the  failure  of  cherished  praspects  of  am- 
bition for  that  young  man ;  then,  on  the  same  side,  an 
unscrupulous  priest,  having  great  and  active  talents,  shut 
up  in  a  little  room ;  obsequious  nuns  ;  with  a  girl  uncom- 
monly gifted  in  mind  and  bod^i  coming  across  the  reli- 
gious prejudices  and  principles  of  all,  and  the  interest 


»; ", ' 


I 


i 

1 
i 

1 

i.:. 


■■I  \<:[ 


1  yii 


CS' 


.1 


314 


TIIIC  NEW   riilEST. 


and  cherislicd  pliiii.s  of  some, — (I  tliiiik  I've  put  it 
stron^jly  eii()ii<;h,) — if  Ji  chiiiKH;  olUfrs,  will  they  snatch 
this  "^irl  up,  aiul  iicep  her  in  «hjnine(!?  In  your  theory 
of  wiuit  iiiis  b(!en  done,  1  behevc  you  h'jiv(^  out  the  futlier 
of  tiie  young  niJin,  entirely,  and  be<^in  at  the  granny, 
{Duxf(emin(if(t<'(i;*)i<hii,aiH\l\M\n'\oM,  and  the  nuns, 
manage  it  anu)ng  them.  That  is  one  su[)i)()silion  ;  another 
is  (or  may  be)  this  : — 

'*  Th(^  pai'lies  before  mentioned, — of  the  first  ])art,  as 
we  say, — old  nurse  of  the  young  man,  and  his  father,  or, 
if  you  will  leave  out  the  lather,  the  inu'se  and  the  ch;rie, 
are  eonspirafors  with  the  girl,  to  bring  her  out  of  the 
Chureh  to  Popery  ;  she  runs  away,  at  the  first  ehance,  in 
her  sick-room  clothes,  and  is  secretly  carried  to  the  nun- 
nery at  Bay-IIarbor. 

"  The  first  of  these  suppositions  is  possible,  but  unlikely  ; 
because,  beside  all  kindly  feelings,  common  sense  would 
teach  the  priest,  if  not  the  woman,  that  it'.s  a  trouble- 
some, unprofitable,  and  dangerous  business,  keeping  a  live 
prisoner,  and  as  dangerous  letting  one  go.  There  have 
been  cases  of  prisoners  so  kept,  certaiidy  ;  but  they  are 
so  rare,  as  to  deserve  to  be  left  out,  in  the  consideration 
of  probabilities. 

"  Then  for  the  other  supposition  of  the  girl's  having 
consented  with  them,  appearances  seem  to  me  against  it. 
There  are  cases  enough  of  this  sort;  women  are  inveigled, 
and  a  [)riest  can  be  found, — without  looking, — to  take  her 
in,  (Virgil,  again,  changing  one  letter,  confugium  vocat : 
hoc  prcetcxit  nomine  culpam ;'\)  but  they  would  let  the 
parents  and  the  world  know,  and  could  we  in  such  a  case 
suppose  the  lover  likely  to  be  ignorant? — You  observe 
that  I  have  yet  made  no  account  of  the  young  lady's 
(Miss  Dare's)  information,  nor  of  the  American's,  nop  of 

*  A  woman  was  leader  in  the  deed. — Vino. 

t  Shelter,  he  calls  it :  with  this  uauie  he  cloaks  the  wrong. 


lii 

4ft'    f*I J 


iLt  i 


MR.  WKLLON  TRIKS  TO  DO  SOMKTMING.        .TlTx 

Laclford's,  not  bocnuso  I  think  them  of  littU;  conscqnnnco, 
for  I  think  Ihcm  v(My  iinporlant,  nltof^fther,  and  Ladford'a, 
and  perhaps  IJan;^s's,  s('|)arat('ly.  Upon  thi;  c.haractor 
of  tliose  men  rests  tiie  wiioli;  bnrd(;n  of  proof: — it  may 
he  enoup;h  to  make  prohahlc  an  irnprobahh;  hypothesis. — 
I  shonld  be  j^hid  to  s(!(;  th(^m." 

Mr.  Wcllon  stated  witiiout  reserve  the  case  of  his  wit- 
nesses.    "  Mr.  Bangs  was  making  some  religious  inqui- 
ries in  Hay-IIarbor,"  (at  this  iiis  hear(ir  smiled,)  "William 
Ladford  was  afraid  to  be   known,"  (liis  h(!ar(;r  looked 
grave :)  the  clergyman  went  on  to  s[)eak  of  the  ti(i  which 
seemed  to  bind  I^adford  to  Skipper  (jJeorge  ;  of  the  irre- 
proachable life  that  In;  hud  led,  and  his  a[)par(!nt  peni- 
tence, the  good  esteem  of  his  neigld)()rs,  and  in  short,  so 
described  him,  that  the  hiwyer  b(!came  quite  interested 
about  him.     "  Let  me  ask,"  said  he,  "  (it  siiall  do  iiim  no 
harm,)  was  he  a  smuggler?"  ("  Y('!i"  said  Mr.  VVfOlon.) 
"  His  name  then  is  Warrener  Lane  ;  we've  heard  of  him  ; 
his  case  is  a  good  deal  better  than  it  usc^d  to  look,  for  I 
noticed  that  his  chief  accuser,  who  was  hung  the  oth«!r 
day,  retracted  his  accusation  of  Lane ;  but  he  is  in  such 
a  position,  that  not  only  he  might  be  put  to  trouble  him- 
self, but  his  evidence  could  be  thoroughly  and  irreme- 
diably impeached.     Now  I'll  think  the  whole  thing  over. 
You  bring  me  these  men,  (will  you? — Ladford,  on  my 
lioiior, — )   to-morrow.      I'll  d(!tcrmine   after  seeing  and 
hearing  them,  and  if  the   smuggler  is  the  sort  of  man, 
we'll  get  his  pardon." 

Mr.  Wellon  thanked  him  heartily. 
"By  the  way,"  said  the  lawyer,  "I  don't  see  any  thing 
of  the  new  priest  in  your  affair ; — Debree,  I  believe  his 
name  is  now  " 


1'   ^  '  H 

t    '< 


:  -H 


•■■I' 


■'ri 


"  1.  ■ 


"  Do  3^ou  know  him  ?  "  asked  the  clergvman. 


i*l'.^:| 


I ,  »  1  -  ■ 


1    I, 


ii 


f  i"' 


•    ti'l'; 


I 


.  i: 


r 


■'I    •!  I 


•<  :  : 


810 


THE  NEW   PRIEST. 


"  To  be  sure  I  do.  I  knew  him  from  a  boy,  and  a  fine 
fellow  he  was.  Ilia  fiith(!i',  you  know,  was  a  member  of 
the  Kxecutivc  Council,  Ibrmerly  Lieutenant-Colonel  in 
the  army.  This  was  his  only  son.  Mrs.  Neilson,  and 
Mrs.  Wilkie,  and  Mrs.  Collins  were  his  daughters.  This 
young  man  went  to  Oxford  and  aiterwartls  took  onhirs. 
IIo  then  went  to  the  West  Indies  and  married  there,  I 
believe,  had  a  fortune  left  him  by  his  mother's  brother, 
dropped  part  of  his  name,  and  then — I  never  heard  how, 
— changed  his  faith.  I  think  his  wife  must  have  died 
there. — That  young  fellow  was  one  of  the  noblest  beings, 
years  ago,  that  I  ever  knew." 

The  clergyman  sighed  deeply,  and  said  that  Father  De- 
bree  was  already  much  beloved  in  Peterport. 

The  next  day  Mr.  ]3angs,  having  been  intercepted  in 

one  of  his  business  tours  by  the  secret  guard,  consented 

to  come  to  the  Attoruey-general's  lodgings,  and  there  went 

through    his  examination.      His   way  of   getting    to   a 

Buceinct  mode  of  speakinir  was  this: — 

Q.  "  Were  you  near  Mr.  Urston's  house  on  the  even- 
ing of  the  Fifteenth  instant  ?  " 

A.  "  Wall,  as  far's  I  can  be  sure  o'  my  pers'nal  ident'ty, 
I  guess  I  was." 

Q.  "  Please  to  answer  directly  to  the  question.    Were 


you 


pi> 


A.  «  Wall,  I  guess  I  wa'n't  far  off." 
Q.  "Once  more;  Were  you?" 

A.  with  a  smile,  "  I  was."  So  on,  about  the  women 
that  night,  and  the  nunnery  and  all.  He  was  desired  to 
wait  after  his  interview  with  the  Attorney-general. 

Ladford,  very  humbly  and  most  intelligently,  gave  his 
statement.  The  lawyer  drew  him  out  a  good  deal  in  a 
kind  way,  and  the  man  let  himself  be  drawn  out. 


*  \im 


MR.  WKLLON  TRIES  TO  DO  SOMKTIIINO.        817 


Wlien  he  heard  of  the  pardon,  he  said  with  tears, 
"Tiuiiik  God!  That's  tlie  'one  other  thla^'  besides  fiiulin'' 
Skipper  Geor;^«!'s  (hiii;rl,ter,  that  I  spoke  to  you  about, 
Mr.  Wellon,  t'other  day.     I  should  hke   to  die  a  free 


iiiiiii 


'I'he  end  of  all  was  that  the  Attoruoy-ijeiioral  8ai«l, — 

"The  warrant  will  be  in  tJ,;  hands  of  the  deputy  .her- 
riff  in  half  an  hour;  he'll  c-a'cute  it  as  soon  as  iu;  can, 
conveniently  and  quietly.  You  must  get  this  Mr.  Iianj»s 
safely  out  of  the  way  till  the  evening,  that  he  may  not 
put  them  on  their  guard." 

On  coming  out,  Mv,  AVellon  was  sounding  the  Amer- 
ican, wh(!n  the  latter  tin-ned  round  and  said, — 

"  Look  a'  here,  Mr.  Wellon ;  you  want  to  know  if  I'll 
keep  still  'bout  the  judgi ,  and  what  not.  Yes — I  guess 
I  will.     'Twun't  touch  Father  O'Toole." 


I 
■I 


m 


318 


THE  NEW   PIJIEST. 


r'Jil 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

A   STATION   AT   HENRAN's   INN. 

)ATHER  DEBREE  had  celebrated  mass  and 
vespers  on  Sunday,  in  the  unfinished  chapel  at 
Castle-Bay,  and  had  given  notice  of  a  station  to 
be  held  at  Michael  Henran's  public-house  in  Peterport, 
on  Wednesday  following,  in  the  afternoon. 

This  inn  stands  opposite  Beachy-Cove,  on  the  other  side 
of  the  road  from  Mrs.  Barre's,  and  on  a  good  deal  higher 
ground. 

A  straight  drung  goes  up  from  the  road  into  an  open 
space  about  the  house,  a  moderate-sized  building,  long  for 
its  thickness,  painted  white  some  years  ago,  and  looking 
well  enough  adapted  for  the  inn  of  such  a  place.  For 
hospitable  purposes  it  has  a  room  down  stairs  (beside  that 
occupied  by  the  cobbler — nay,  shoemaker,) — and  two 
rooms  on  the  next  floor  also. 

The  inn  fronts  nearly  south,  like  almost  all  the  houses, 
and  has  a  door  in  front  with  a  smooth  stone  before  it,  and 
a  door  at  the  east  end,  that  looks  "  down  harbor."  There 
is  a  southward  view  (over  the  little  grove  of  firs,  fenced 
in  on  the  other  side  of  the  road)  to  Sandy  Harbor ;  the 
upper  part  of  that  harbor,  Wantful,  being  alone  seen  over 
the  rocky  ridge,  which  like  that  of  Peterport  grows  higher 
as  it  goes  down  toward  the  Bay. 


A  STATION  AT  HENRAN'S  INN. 


319 


le  other  side 


Beyond  this  nearest  tongue  of  land  (and  rock)  may  be 
seen  others,  though  not  divided  to  the  eye  at  this  height, 
by  water,  and  far  off  tlie  southern  border  of  Conception- 
Bay,  beautiful  in  its  silent  rocky  strength  and  varies'  out- 
line. Inland,  again,  lie  mysterious-looking,  many-colored 
mountains  of  broken  rock,  shaded  with  deep  crevices 
perhaps,  or  with  the  dark-green  "  Vars "  *  and  other 
never-changing  forest-trees. 

The  scenery,  at  the  time  of  which  we  write,  was  over- 
hung and  hung  around  with  far-off  heaped  clouds,  turned 
up  and  flecked  with  crimson,  with  the  bright  red  of  the 
furnace  and  tlie  pale  red  of  the  shell,  grandly  and  gor- 
geously as  ever  clouds  were  .painted  under  any  sky.  It 
is  a  sort  of  scenery, — this  of  a  splendid  summer's  sunset, 
— which  by  its  drawing  out  the  eye  toward  the  horizon 
and  upward  toward  the  sky,  stretches  the  mind  as  well, 
(it  may  be  backward  to  memories  far  left  behind ;  it  may 
be  forward  to  far  hopc^.s,  or  thoughts  of  tilings  beyond  this 
earth  and  this  earth's  life,)  and  gives  to  all  minds,  unless 
insensible  to  such  influences,  a  tendency  to  mysterious 
musing. 

A  little  company  had  gathered  round  the  inn,  before 
the  time,  and  had  been  here  waiting  ever  since,  while  the 
afternoon  had  passed  away.  The  priest  had  not  come. 
The  foremost  were  a  number  of  old  women,  adjusting 
every  now  and  then  some  difficulty  of  slight  character,  as 
one  might  judge,  and  some  of  them  grumbling  in  a  low 
voice. 

B  Jiind  these  elders  and  athong  them  were  an  old  man 
or  two,  then  some  young  women,  very  silent,  for  the  most 
part;  some  of  them  looking  quite  absorbed  and  earnest, 
one  or  two  whispering  and  perhaps  discussing  the  ap- 

*  Firs. 


■.|< 


il 


'm 


life-  i>i 


f  h 


mm 


320 


THE  NEW    PJHEST. 


•r ,' ' 


1  ii 


1.'  i 


'i;,''  :,-(■ 


ul:: 


W   ■'! 


im 


f:   lii'lllS: 


lir'Pi' 


pearance  or  the  character  of  a  companion,  or  of  the 
veterans  in  front,  and  one  or  rvvo  of  them  occasionally 
mischievous  in  joking  "  practically,"  as  the  phrase  goes, 
pulling  a  shawl  or  ribbon  for  exampls,  or  inflicting  sudden 
pinches  unobserved.  Below  again, — about  the  door,  in 
side  and  outside, — were  a  man  or  two,  reserved  and  medi- 
tative, smoking  a  pipe  apart,  or  leaning  silently  against 
the  door,  or  on  the  fence  outside  ;  and  many  younger  men 
talking  together  in  low  tones  and  passing  homely  jokes  on 
one  another. 

At  length  there  was  a  sudden  change  of  state  among 
these  little  groups  ;  the  priest  passed  through  them, 
hastily,  explaining  and  apologizing  for  his  being  late. 
Then  the  noise  of  feet  that,  when  restrained  and  tutored, 
only  made  noise  the  more  methodically,  succeeded  to  the 
other  sounds,  and  the  wdiole  company  soon  disappeared 
above. 

The  office  of  Vespers  passed,  in  English  ;  and  after- 
ward, the  congregation  having  gone  out,  the  priest  seated 
himself  near  the  table  on  which  the  crucifix  was  standing 
and  the  candles  burning,  and  beside  the  open  doorway 
leading  from  the  larger  front  room  to  a  smaller  one 
behind. 

Mr.  Duggan,  the  clerk,  sat  at  the  opposite  side  of  the 
large  room,  reading  in  a  low  voice,  (perhaps  the  VII 
Penitential  Psalms.) 

Presently,  one  by  one,  some  members  of  the  late  con- 
gregation came  into  the  back  room  from  the  hall,  and 
kneeling  at  the  backside  of  the  partition,  made  their  con- 
fessions. 

One  old  body  planted  herself  upon  her  knees  not  far 
inside  the  door,  counting  the  beads  of  a  rosary  of  which 
every  body  knew   the   history,   which  was  repeated  or 


A   STATION  AT  HENRANS   IXX. 


Sin 


alluded  to,  every  time  the  historic  beads  appeared ; 
namely,  that  it  was  of  disputed  and  very  uncertain  pro- 
prietorship; and  being  the  only  one  possessed  among  the 
neighbors  in  a  certain  part  of  the  harbor,  was  now  in  one 
family,  now  in  another,  and  unhappily  had  attached  to  it 
as  many  feuds  as  any  belt  of  Indian  wampum  passes 
through,  though  not  so  deadly.  Jiowever,  the  present 
holder  was  making  devoted  use  of  it  just  now.  Hail 
Mary  after  Hail  Mary  went  over  her  lips  and  through 
her  fingers,  in  a  low  mumble  of  the  former  and  slow 
fumble  of  the  latter,  her  head  bowing  and  body  swinging 
alwnys,  but  with  a  slight  difference,  at  times,  indicating,  as 
well  as  the  larger  beads,  when  she  was  engaged  with  a 
pater-noster. 

One  by  one  had  passed  away,  after  conR.'ssion ;  the 
evening  had  been  wearing  on,  and  had  grown  silent  and 
more  silent ;  the  neighborly  men  who  had  gone  into  the 
lower  penetralia  of  the  inn  to  have  a  chnt  and  smoke, 
and,  in  some  cases,  a  drink,  had  mostly  gone  and  left  the 
place ;  the  stairs  seemed  empty ;  Avhen  there  came  in  at 
the  door  below  and  up  the  stairs,  a  dark  figure  of  a 
woman.  Mike  Henran,  tlu^  host,  half  asleep  as  he  was, 
catching  a  half-glance  at  something  unusual  passing  by 
the  open  door  of  the  room  in  which  he  and  an  exhausted 
friend  or  two  were  sleeping  or  dozing,  got  softly  up,  of  a 
sudden,  out  of  his  nap,  and  walking  to  the  doorway, 
looked  up  after  the  late  comer,  and  then,  lighting  a  new 
pipe,  sat  down  to  wake  and  sleep  again.  The  shawl,  the 
black  dress,  the  hood,  the  veil,  concealed  her  face  and 
person. 

The  old  body  and  her  beads  had  clambered  up  from 
the  position  in  which  we  have  seen  them,  and,  having 
staid  their  time  at  the  priest's  side,  had  hobbled  back  and 

21 


' 


mh ; 


Mm 

(|.:.ifr  'mI 


322 


THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


passing  through  the  door,  had  heavily  come  down  stairs- 
observed  by  Henran — and  departed. 

As  the  old  woman  passed  away,  looking  most  likely, 
rather  at  her  precious  rosary  than  any  thing  beside,  the 
female,  who  had  just  come  up  the  stairs  and  was  now 
standing  beside  the  doorway,  and  between  it  and  the  out- 
side window  of  the  entry,  turned  with  clasped  hands  and 
stood  in  a  fixed  posture,  as  if,  through  the  dark  folds  of 
her  veil,  her  eyes  were  peering  forth  into  the  great 
solemn  night,  down  into  which  the  far,  far,  earnest  stars 
were  casting  light  as  into  a  great  sea. 

Against  the  door-post,  the  lonely  figure  leaned,  her 
hands  still  clasped ;  and  then,  raising  her  silent,  shrouded 
face  toward  heaven,  she  steadily  and  strongly  set  her 
face  forward  and  went  in  to  where  the  priest  was.  Here, 
in  the  middle  of  the  room,  she  paused ;  Father  Ignatius 
neither  moved  nor  looked  up,  as  she  stood ;  the  clerk 
breathed  very  hard  in  a  deep  sleep ;  and  still  she  paused. 
At  length,  not  looking  up,  nor  moving,  but  sitting  with 
his  eyes  fastened  to  the  floor,  he  said :  "  Why  do  you 
stay  ?  Tm  waiting  for  you," 


ivn  stair.'i— 


THE  TRIBUNAL  OF  PENITENCE. 


323 


1 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 


THE    TRIBUNAL    OF   PENITENCE. 


)T  is  a  tremendous  place,  this  Tribunal  of  Penitence ! 
Be  it  at  St.  Peter's  in  Rome,  or  in  the  Pope's 
chapel,  or  in  one  of  the  deserted  churches  of  the 
Cumpagna,  or  in  a  little  squalid  chamber,  any  where  on 
earth,  the  walls  of  deal  or  masonwork  are  brushed  away, 
as  with  the  back  of  the  Almighty  Pland,  in  preparation 
for  this  miniature  foreshapmg  of  the  Last  Judgment:  the 
canopy  of  the  dread  deep  of  space  is  spread  above ;  a 
pavement  of  rare  stone-work  is  laid  down  below :  "  a 
throne  is  set,  from  which  come  lightnings  and  voices  and 
thunders,  and  around  which  is  a  rainbow,  like  unto  an 
emerald,  and  in  sight  of  which  is  a  sea  of  glass  like  to 
crystal;  and  four  and  twenty  ancients  sit  about  the 
throne,  clothed  in  white  garments  and  ivearing  crowns  of 
gold;  and  on  the  throne  there  sitteth  One." 

Here  is  to  be  laid  bare  the  bottom  of  a  deep  profounder 
than  the  Mighty  Depth  of  Waters,  strewed  with  more 
wrecks  of  precious  things ;  and,  in  this  presence.  Sin 
that  brought  Death  into  the  world, — whose  meed  is 
Death, — and  for  which  everlasting  Ilell  has  been  pre- 
pared,— Sin  is  here  pardoned,  and  an  angel  standing  here 
records  the  everlasting  Act  of  Grace ;  the  Divine  Spirit 
gives  tlie  kiss  of  peace  to  the  forgiven  soul,  and  Heaven 


m 


Ifi      f! 


bwHh 


324 


THE  NEW   PKIEST. 


■I  ■! 


.^ 


■"  ■ '.,- 


E 


i 

,1/  ij 
••!n  tiv 

m 


!■■< ;  I 


i  ^-^^''^ 

■.\ 

1  ^t 

:  1 

..  1 

k 

i  i 

L 

L^ 

and  Earth  here  open  into  one  another.  Tremendous 
place !  Here,  and  here  only,  is  the  appointed  place, 
where  sin  may  be  forgiven. 

Or,  Stay  !  The  Throne  is  here,  and  all  the  dread  sur- 
roundings of  the  LiOiU)  God  Almighty — but  in  the  seat 
of  the  Eternal  King,  INIaker  and  Judg'o — a  worm  !  per- 
haps, upon  God's  seat,  a  serpent,  glistening  and  gloating! 

Suppose  this  seat  to  be  usurped  ;  suppose  that  God  has 
never  given  power  to  man  to  sit  here  and  to  compel 
souls  before  him  !     77/6/1 — What  thkn? 

The  candles  burned  there  and  tlie  Priest  sat  there. 
The  clerk  was  fast  asleep,  ajiparently,  with  his  book 
between  his  listless  hands,  his  head  upon  his  breast.  Tlie 
murmur  of  his  recitation  was  no  longer  heard.  Those 
still  hours  of  tlie  night  had  come,  in  which  there  seems  to 
be  less  obstruction  between  soul  and  soul. 

She  came  forward  with  her  two  hands  clasped,  and  her 
veil  hanging  down  before  her  face.  She  came  up  to  the 
front  of  the  table,  and  turning  her  veiled  face  toward  the 
Priest  and  dropping  her  clasped  hands,  stood  still. 

All  was  still ;  but  some  intelligence  seemed  to  reach 
the  Priest,  although  he  never  once  looked  up. 

A  deep  agitation  seized  his  frame  ;  but  presently  he 
sat  more  erect,  still  looking  on  the  floor, — very  pale, — 
intensely  agitated. 

"Waiting  for  me?"  she  asked,  in  a  clear,  low,  most 
mournful  voice,  repeating  the  Priest's  words.  There  was 
a  pause  of  hesitation  or  of  recollection,  and  then  the 
words  came  from  iier  slowly ;  but  the  pause  beforehand 
and  the  deep,  breathing,  agitated,  earnest  silence  of  the 
listener  were  fitted  to  m;ike  intense  the  interest  of  the 
words  when  she  began  to  speak  and  while  she  spoke. 

Her  voice  had  in  it  that  tender  touch  which  lays  itself, 


TIIK   TRIBUNAL   OF   PENITENCE. 


325 


warm  and  living  on  the  heart,  like  a  dear  voice  from 
home  ;  from  happy  childhood,  from  sad  friendship  ;  from 
early,  unforgotten  love  ;  from  reverend  admonition,  given 
long  ago ;  from  cheering  exhortation  of  some  one  that 
trusted  in  us  and  hoped  from  us ;  that  tender  touch, 
indeed,  whicli  is  made  up  of  all  the  pure  and  holy,  and 
deep,  and  true,  and  honest,  that  a  voice  can  carry  with  it, 
as  a  wind  that  hlovvs  over  whole  fields  of  flowers  and 
fruitage. 

Some  voices, — at  some  times, — are  such  ;  such  hers 
was. 

She  spoke  again,  slowly  and  sadly. 

"  Are  you  waiting  ?  Is  it  not  /  that  am  waiting  ?  Is  it 
not  I  ?  " 

She  sank  slowly  upon  her  knees,  and  rested  her  clasped 
hands  upon  the  tiible ;  but  her  veiled  face  was  towards 
him  and  not  toward  the  crucifix.  Her  voice  was  touch- 
ing and  pathetic,  to  the  last  degree.  The  air  seemed  to 
pause  upon  her  words  before  it  hid  them  out  of  hearing. 
There  was  a  sound  as  of  tears  dropping  upon  the  floor ; 
but  there  was  no  sob ;  there  was  no  sigh. 

There  seemed  a  noise,  as  of  a  person  moving,  not  far 
off;  she  turned  about,  but  no  one  could  be  seen  except 
the  clerk,  asleep,  and  breathing  heavily,  as  before. 

Oh  !  what  a  weary  thing  is  "  Waiting ! "  and  her  words 
seemed  to  come  forth  out  of  sorrow  unutterable.  This 
was  a  strange  prelude  to  a  confession ;  but  from  such  a 
voice,  in  giving  forth  which  the  whole  life  seemed  to  be 
concerned,  who  could  turn  away?  He  had  prayed,  as 
one  might  have  seen  ;  but  his  features  still  wore  the  look 
of  deep  agitation  which  had  suddenly  come  over  them 
when  she  first  approached  him,  though  now  they  showed 
how  strong  a  hold  was  laid  upon  the  feeling,  to  keep  it 
down. 


pti 


iia 


II 


im? 


Ui 


W'  '.1 


■M 


326 


THE  NEW   PKIEST. 


'  i'i'-i 


I  ' 


;:si! 


\mi 


"  Have  you  been  waiting  ? "  said  he,  with  a  pause 
after  the  question. 

"  Yes !  Waiting  for  ray  hope  to  feel  the  sun,  and 
bloom,"  she  answered,  with  a  voice  rushing  fast  forth, 
floated  on  tears,  but  scarcely  louder  tiian  the  habit  of  the 
place  permitted ; — "  waiting  for  tlie  life  that  is  my  own  !  " 
— and  then  her  voice  began  to  drop  down,  as  it  were, 
from  step  to  step, — and  the  steps  seemed  cold  and  damp, 
as  it  went  down  them  lingcringly : — "  or  for  trial, — disap- 
pointment,— whatever  comes !  "  and  at  the  last,  it  seemed 
to  have  gone  down  into  a  sej)Uichral  vault.  Her  head 
sank  upon  her  two  hands, — still  clasped, — resting  upon 
the  edge  of  the  table  ;  a  convulsion  of  feeling  seemed  to 
be  tearing  her  very  frame,  as  she  kneeled  there,  in  the 
garb  as  well  as  the  attitude  of  deep  sorrow ;  but  it  was 
only  one  great  struggle. 

A  motion  of  the  Priest, — perhaps  to  speak, — and  a 
suppressed  exclamation,  recalled  her,  and  she  reared  up 
her  woman's  head  again,  and  spoke : — 

— "  But  I  am  not  come  to  talk  of  sorrow,"  she  said, 
and  paused  again. 

^^  Sister/"  said  he,  in  that  pause,  (not  'Daughter,') 
(and,  as  he  said  the  word  and  rested  on  it, — his  voice  agi- 
tated and  full  of  feeling,  as  if  it  had  a  throbbing  life  of 
its  own, — the  one  word-  expressed  many  sentences :  an 
assurance  of  sacredness,  of  love,  and  of  authority,  at 
once,)  "  What  have  you  come  to  this  place  for  ?  To  seek 
for  peace  ?  " 

"  To  seek  i/ou,  Brother  ! — or,  should  I  say  Father  ?  " 

"  Call  me  as  you  will,"  he  answered,  gently  and  mourn- 
fully, not  hastily  ;  "  but  what  can  you  gain,  in  finding 
me?" 

"  I  have  gained  something  already  ;  I've  found,  within 


*ls; 


THE  TRIBUNAL  OF   PRNITRNCE. 


327 


tlie  cold  prlson-walla  of  your  priesthood,  your  heart  still 

1'  •      >» 

^'"Sister!"  snid  h<^,  a^jjain,  witli  su<!]i  an  emphasis  and 
pause  upon  the  word,  as  if  he  in(?ant  that  it  should  speak 
its  whole  meaninnf,  while  his  voice  was  agitated  as  before, 
"  what  right  have  I  here,  except  as  a  priest  to  hear  con- 
fession and  give  comfort  to  the  penitent?  and  what — ?" 

— "  What  right  have  /  here,"  she  said,  in  a  voice 
so  low  that  it  did  not  seem  intended  to  interrui)t  what 
he  was  saying,  though  he  suffered  it  to  interrupt  him. 
"  Have  /  any  right  here,"  she  repeated,  more  distinctly, 
when  he  ceased  to  sf)eak, — "  except  to  confess  ?  " 

That  gentle,  broken  woman's  voice !  Oh !  what  a 
power  there  is  in  woman's  gentleness,  when  it  pleads  of 
right ! 

The  thing  said,  or  the  tone,  or  all,  moved  the  Priest's 
whole  being,  as  the  convulsion  (slight  tliough  it  was)  of 
his  body  witnessed  ;  but  he  did  not  speak. 

"  Have  I  any  riglit  ?  "  she  said,  still  again,  in  the  same 
sad  pleading. 

He  then  spoke,  in  a  voice  that  had  little  of  his  strength 
or  authority  in  its  sound,  though  it  appealed  to  what 
might  be,  perhaps,  a  certain  fixed  principle.  He  also 
spoke  slowly  and  sadly. 

"  What  can  be  between  us.  Sister,"  he  said,  "  except 
this  mutual  Office  of  Priest  and —  ?  " 

— "  Penitent !  "  she  said,  mechanically,  as  he  paused. 
Then,  with  a  choking  voice,  and  with  that  helpless  sad- 
ness in  which  one  might  cry  out,  who  was  falling,  sud- 
denly, hopeless,  into  the  soft,  drifted  snow  between  the 
glaciers,  and  whose  w^ords  the  cold  wind  behind  was 
whirling  away,  wasted  in  air,  she  gasped  out : — 

"  '  Wliat   can    be    betwx'en    us  ? ' — Oh  ! '  — and    tears 


■.; !  Ill 


.M 


Hifi 


TIIK   NEW   IMMKST 


'n; 


iJi 


ill!  II 


dripped  faster  throu;j;li  tlie  hush  that  followed,  upon  the 
floor.  Ajijain,  the  I'riest  was  moved  ;  and  so  that  tears 
flowed  from  his  vyo^i,  also.  A  moment  is  a  great  thiiijr, 
when  erowdc'd  full ;  and  this  lasted  a  moment.  Of  her- 
self she  strun:<jfled  forth  to  firm  footin«jj,  and  said: — 

"No!  I  did  not  eome  here  to  wrep  ;  "  and,  }};atherin<» 
strength,  went  on,  keeping  her  feeling  down  under  her 
voice : — 

"  This  Olfiee  he  between  us,  then  !  It  may  answer  my 
purpose." 

Now,  as  she  spoke,  her  voice  had  all  the  influence  that 
the  deepest  and  strongest  feeling  could  give  to  it,  while  it 
was  not  so  broken  as  to  interrupt  her. 

"  If  it  be  any  thing  beside  confession,"  he  answered, 
"  is  this  the  place  and  time  ?  or,  if  it  be  confession,  might 
you  not  better  seek  another  priest  ?    And  will  you  not  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  no  !     If  I  may  speak,  then  it  must  be  to  i/oit  f  " 

He  answered,  gently  and  sadly,  bracing  himself,  in  his 
chair,  to  listen  : — 

"  I  will  go  through  it,  if  I  must ;  I  do  not  ask  to  be 
spared  my  share  of  pain.  I  see  a  life  full  of  it  before 
me  ;  a  dark  ocean  and  a  dark  sky  meeting :  but  I  know 
well,  no  good  can  come  of  this.  Why  may  we  not  both 
be  spared?" 

— "  And  yet  it  is  your  very  part  to  look  on  the  twitch- 
ing of  the  heart's  living  fibre  ;  ay,  to  hold  its  walls  open, 
"while  you  gaze  in  between  !  I  would  not  give  you  pain  ; 
but  this  is  God's  opportunity  to  me,  and  I  have  made  my 
way  to  this  poor  little  place,  feeling  as  if  I  were  called  to 
it.  Let  me  hold  it  with  my  knees,  like  a  poor  penitent 
and  suppliant,  as  I  am  !     Give  me  my  little  right !  " 

He  answered,  still  more  sadly  than  before,  though  that 
was  very  sadly : — 


TllK   TKIIJUNAL    Ol'    rKNII  KNCK. 


;;2!) 


answer  iny 


"You  sli.'ill  liHVc  all  your  ri;^lit,  my  Sister."  Then,  as 
If  tlicro  were  mon;  in  the  words  than  In;  liad  ficlt  till  lit 
had  uttered  them,  or  more  jiain  iu  the  prospect  than  in  what 
was  past,  he  bent  his  iicjid  lower,  and  ela-p(!d  his  hands. 

"You  wotdd  not  s<'ek  to  send  m(5  to  others  indis- 
criminately, if  you  knew  of  the  confessional  what  I  have 
known,  by  my  own  experience,"  sshe  said. 

The  I'riest  started  sndileidy,  ns  if  these  earnest,  bitter 
words  were  burninfi;  anxU.  lie  lifted  up  his  facii  (thou;j:h 
with  th(!  eyes  I'ast-closed).  It  w}is  paler  than  ever;  his 
lips  wei'(»  |>ale  and  slightly  trembling,  and  his  fondiead 
moist.  His  a;ji:itation  was  ('xtreme.  Again  she  leaned 
her  forehejul  on  her  hands  upon  the  table,  while  he 
seemed  to  jtray  inwaidiy.  Presently,  he  had  mastered 
himself  enough  to  sjx'ak  : — 

"  Oh  !  Sister,"  he  said,  "  will  you  not  go  to  some  other 
with  your  bunhin?"  And  then,  as  if  meeting  an  objec- 
tion, added — "To  no  bad  j)riest ;  go  to  the  bishop,  or  to 
Fatluu*  Terence,  at  Bay-IIarbor." 

"  Why  should  I  go  to  them  ?  I  know  them  not,  and 
have  no  business  with  them.  I  am  willing  to  confess  my 
own  sin  ;  but  it  must  be  here." 

The  Priest  started,  as  if  recalling  himself;  his  whole 
frame  heaved,  and  the  momentary  ghastliness  of  his 
face  was  like  a  phosphorescent  light,  almost,  that  flashed 
faintly. 

''  You  spoke  of  the  confess  ional,"  said  he  ;  "  it  is  com- 
mon for  enemies  to  charge  it." 

— "  But  what  I  know,  alas !  is  not  a  scandal,  caught 
from  others'  lips ;  it  is  no  horrible  suspicion.  It  is  a 
frightful  fact !  " 

Father  Ignatius,  w^ith  a  hand  upon  each  knee,  sat  like 
a  man  balancing  himself  in  a  skiff,  and  intent,  as  if  for 


I 


' ...      a 


i{]  :: 


n:io 


TIIK  NKW    I'KIEST. 


■  '':  'ill 


MjII 


life  or  (Icatli,  upon  lli<!  dan^^Mroiis  cddins  tlirouj^li  whleh 
he  was  wliiiTm^.     Shi'  went  on,  after  a  pausr: — 

"1  cjiiik;  here,  not  to  speak  of  that.  If  never  harmed 
me.  It  came  not  near  me.  Let  me  confess  my  sin. 
Once,  I  consented, — I  will  not  say  on  what  inducement, — 
to  force  a  douht  into  my  mind,  where  there  was  none, 
about  u  sacred  bond  between  me  and  atiother. — "  (The 
Priest  lifted  up  liis  eyes  to  heaven,  and  moved  his  lips.) 
"Th(!re  was  no  doubt  before;  there  was  none  since. — 
Again  I  suffered  mys<df, — I  will  not  speak  of  my  induce- 
ments,— to  draw  aside  into  a  convent,  to  weigh  and  settle 
questions,  where  no  ([uestion  was,  about  my  Faith,  about 
my  Church,  about  my  liibh?.  I  went  to  services  ;  I  kept 
the  Hours :  I  read  books  ! — went  to  confession. — Oh  ! 
that  dreadful  time  !  My  eyes  burned  :  my  brain  burned : 
my  heart  burned :  all  seemed  drying  up  within  me.  It 
was  a  wilderness  and  a  Devil  tempting ! — I  heard,  and 
read,  and  confessed,  as  one  in  agony  may  pour  down  one 
draught  after  another. — Is  there  a  greater  sin  ?  To  take 
in  doubt,  where  there  is  no  doubt  ? — Of  a  plain  thing  ? 
To  suffer  question  where  there  is  no  question,  and  where 
none  ought  to  be,  because  the  thing  is  plain  as  God's 
great  sun  ? — I  went  no  farther ;  but  I  went  too  far ! 
— I  broke  forth  into  fresh  air,  and  already  I  had 
lost  all !  Yes,  I  have  suffered  something  for  my  sin  ; 
— and  God  has  since  taken  away  my  beautiful  boy ! 
but  I  stand  strongly  now ;  I  closed  his  eyes  in  a  sure 
faith." 

A  mighty  feeling  seemed  to  occupy  Father  Ignatius  ; 
not  rending  like  the  earthquake,  or  sweeping  over,  like 
the  hurricane  ;  but  rising,  rather,  like  the  strong,  black 
flood,  eddying  and  whirling  and  swelling  up  within. 

"  The  faith  of  a  child  came  back   to  my  heart,"  she 


THE   TUFIUJNAL  OF   I'KNU'DNCI:. 


831 


said,  "  wlicii  I  was  free,  once  rnoro  ;  it  came  back  like  a 
Fprinjij  tliMt  had  been  dry. 

"  Tiicre  !  I  have  yielded  so  far  to  tlie  customs  of  this 
phiee ;  and  have  hiid  down,  at  the  door  of  tliis  church,  tiie 
sin  that  was  [)ut  into  my  liands  at  its  door;  but  now  I 
must  break  throu^li,  cost  what  it  wiU.  I  iuivc  no  power 
oi'  skill  to  carry  out  a  part,  and,  in  i)retending  to  confess, 
insinuate  what  I  hi.ve  to  speak.  I  am  a  woman,  and 
must  go  straight  to  my  object. — It  was  not  to  say  what 
I  have  said. 

"Nor  have  I  any  claim  to  urpje  for  myself,  now  that  I 
have  made  my  way  to  this  place,  except  to  speak.  I  ask 
back  nothing  that  has  been  taken  from  me ;  I  have; 
counted  it  all  lost." — (Her  voice  trembled,  as  she  spoke 
that  short,  sad  word ;  but  in  a  moment  she  went  on,  and 
her  voice  was  stead  ..)  "  I  am  still  ready  to  count  it  lost; 
and  ask  nothing  for  it  but  the  leave  to  plead, — (not  for 
myself,  either,  but  for  another,) — against  this  church  and 
prifisthood  that  have  robbed  me." 

(Poor  woman  !  is  that  what  she  has  come  for  ?) 

"  It  may  seem  a  frenzy  that  1  should  come  here, — a 
weak  woman, — into  the  very  citadel  of  this  Church,  to 
speak  against  it ;  and  into  the  confessional,  to  accuse  the 
priest.  I  have  come  upon  a  woman's  errand ;  but  with 
no  bitter  words  to  utter ;  no  reproaches  ;  no  upbraidings. 
My  whole  purpose  is  to  plead ;  and  I  hjive  little  time." 

(The  candles  flared ;  the  clerk  breathed  hard,  in  sleep.) 

"  You  are  a  priest ;  but  whoever, — man  or  woman, — 
has  the  truth  of  God,  is  so  far  a  minister  of  God,  as  to 
have  right  and  power  with  it,  in  His  name." 

Her  voice  had  risen,  as  she  spoke,  (such  was  its  energy 
of  conviction  and  purpose,)  above  its  former  level ;  the 
clerk  started,  and  ere  he  was  awake,  said,  in  the  church 


i<m 


li 


lii 


hm 


m 


I 

fir      S} 


•332 


THE  NEW   PKIEST. 


^iMIiQ 


alii 


Uk. 


U-}-Mi 


'.  ■'-: 


111! 


'if! 


;•■   1 


'-y  t 


tone,  "  Sed  lihera  nos  a — "*  Then,  having  looked  about 
him,  and  recovered  himself,  turned  again  to  his  book,  and 
his  low  reading,  as  before.  The  Priest  did  not  move, 
but  sat  in  ])erfect  silence,  with  a  face  intensely  agitated. 

Once  more,  at  this  interruption,  he  bowed  her  head 
upon  the  table,  and  was  still.  Again  the  clerk's  reading 
ceased ;  again  the  deep  breathing  of  sleep  followed,  and 
again  she  spoke  : — 

''  I  will  not  plead  your  loss  of  all  dear  memories  of  the 
first  things  that  we  hold  sacred :  child's  prayers ;  the 
Catechism;  Sundt^.y-lessons ;  holy  books  given  and  treas- 
(U'ed ;  the  awfulness  and  beauty  of  God's  House  and 
Service  ;  the  kneeling-place  beside  Father  and  Mother ; 
Con.^rmation  ;  Holy  Communion  ; — 1  do  not  mean  to 
appeal  to  feelings,  though  1  am  a  woman  ; — that  argu- 
menc  can  be  used  on  either  side ; — but  I  call  up  that 
priesthood  th;it  you  wore,  and  ask.  Do  you  feel  safe, — can 
^  ou  feel  >i).i'c, — giving  up  such  convictions  and  such  obliga- 
tions as  were  upon  you,  for  a  religion  and  a  priesthood 
that  must  go  over  or  outside  of  God's  Written  Word  for 
every  thing  that  is  their  own  ? — (Let  me  speak  freely  this 
once  !  I  speak  weeping.")  As  she  said  this,  the  weep- 
ing, for  a  moment,  overcame  the  speaking. — She  struggled 
on : — "  When  there  is  no  Pop<.',  no  Queen  of  Heaven,  no 
Sacrament  of  Penance,  no  Purgatory  and  pardons  out 
of  it,  none  of  the  suj)erstition,  (let  me  speak  it !)  and  idol- 
atry, and  absolute  dominion  over  soul  and  body,  which 
this  cruel,  dreadful  priesthood  brings  with  it,  like  a  car 
of  Juggernaut,  no  frecpient,  dangerous  intimacy  of  men 
with  wicked  women  :  nor  subjection  of  innocent,  trusting 
women  to  false  ministeis  of  God  ; — none  of  this  in  all  the 
written  Word  of  God.  Church  and  Gosfrnl  come  in, 
hundreds  of  tiir.Gs ;  and  fa'ith,  and  love,  and  fellovv- 
*  "  But  deliver  us  from—" 


'=)!t<5(.f»  V 


'•     ^! 


THK  TRIBUNAL   OF   PENITENCE. 


333 


slnp ;  a  simple,  kindly  priesthood,  and  a  church  which 
is  the  holy  jratherinjj  of  believers  ! 

"  Father  Ignatius  Debree  ! — once  a  priest  of  the 
Church  'in  England  ! — You  have  taken  to  your  heart, 
and  confess  with  your  lips, — (I  speak  in  tears,) — a  wor- 
ship corrupted,  a  faith  perverted,  sacraments  chanfred,  a 
ministry  altered  in  form  and  spirit!  Yes  ;  whatever  au- 
thority any  one  of  these  has,  it  cannot  turn  for  witness  to 
the  Bible !  Not  one  of  them  is  in  it ;  and  the  others 
are,  the  Catholic  Church,  Faith,  Friesth.ood,  all ! 

"  Can  you  dare  to  break  down,  and  tear  asunder,  and 
trample  under  foot,  what  is  in  the  Bibl(»,  and  what  was 
in  the  hearts  and  on  the  lips  of  Apostles  and  Martyrs, 
(as  it  is  in  our  poor  hearts  and  on  our  lips,)  for  those 
uncertain  things? — You  cannot! 

"  For  a  while,  when  you  are  with  other  priests,  or  very 
busy,  you  may  not  tremble  or  falter ;  but  when  you  are 
alone,  or  when  you  are  among  other  people,  as  you  must 
be  often,  the  thoughts  of  what  you  have  abandoned  and 
what  you  have  chosen, — of  what  yc  have  lost,  and  what 
you  have  gained,  will  come ;  and  then  the  memories  of 
ciiildhood  will  stretch  out  their  little  hands  to  you  ;  the 
faces  of  other  forsaken  meinoiies  will  come  gently  and 
mournfully  up  to  you  ;  you  will  hear  old  voices,  and  see 
old  scenes. — You  cannot  help  it ! — You  have  known  the 
truth,  and  had  it.  Your  mind  will  never  satisfy  itself 
with  this;  your  heart  can  never  really  sec  its  love  here  ! 
Never  !  never  !  And  when  you  feel  what  it  must  be, 
being  false!  and  what  you  taught,  true"  — 

Again  there  was  a  slight  noise,  as  of  some  one  moving, 
not  far  off;  but,  beside  the  Pi'iest,  only  the  sleeping  clerk 
was  to  be  seen.  She  had  been  kneeling,  and  she  rose 
blowly.     There  was  silence. 


H 


Wl 


■M. 


ill 


334 


THE  NKW  PRIEST. 


■  ^;!': 


h.M'. 


ii  'I 


P  uUl] 


mm 


!«-:i;;i!, 


"  Is  it  finialied  ?  "  asked  the  Priest,  miister  of  his  voice, 
though  ghastly  pale. 

She  stood  still  before  him  ;  and  then,  with  a  voice 
partly  breaking,  again  said,  "  Yes  !  "  Then  again  she 
said,  "  I  have  thought  and  prayed,  for  years, — and  have 
spoken  !  Thank  God  for  this  chance  !  Thank  you  for 
hearing !  " 

"  Are  you  satisfied,  now  ?  "  asked  the  Priest. 

There  was  no  answer,  but  a  convulsion  of  the  woman's 
frame  as  if  her  heart  were  breaking  before  tliis  im[)assive 
strength  of  the  man. — She  rallied  herself,  as  she  had 
rallied  herself  before,  and  answered  : — 

"  No  !  no  !  but  neither  am  I  wearied.  When  I  am 
gone,  I  shall  still  plead,  elsewhere, — for  one  thing, — for 
one  thing  !  Farewell,  Father  Ignatius  !  Will  you  say, 
'  God  be  with  you  ? '  " 

"  Oh  !  yes,  indeed  !     God  be  with  you,  forever  ! " 

Suddenly  she  passed  out ; — disturbing,  as  she  went,  a 
woman  who  seemed  sleeping  by  the  doorway. 

Father  Ignatius  fell  down  heavily,  on  his  knees,  before 
the  table. 


A  ill 


lis  voice, 


FATHER   DKBIiEE  AT  BAY-IIARBOR  AGAIN.     335 


CHAPTER   XXX VIL 


woman  s 


FATIIKR    DEBliEE    AT   BAY-HARBOR    AGAIN. 


E  must  go  to  other  of  the  characters  of  our 
story. 

Some  (lays  after  having  mentioned  to  the 
priests  at  Bay-IIarbor  the  suspicions  entertained  among 
the  people  of  his  neighborhood,  Father  Debree  again 
sought  the  Mission-premises,  and  Father  Terence. 

The  substantial  dignitary,  before  sitting  down,  said  : — 

"  Will  ye  oblige  me  by  giving  that  door  a  small  swing 
into  th'  other  room  ?  "  and  waited,  upon  his  feet,  until  the 
door  had  been  opened,  and  the  adjoining  room  shown  to 
have  no  person  in  it. 

"  What's  betwixt  you  and  him,  then  ?  "  he  asked,  when 
all  was  quiet  again.  "  It's  not  good  having  trouble  ; — and 
with  one  like  him.  You're  the  younger  priest,  and  it's 
good  to  bear  the  yoke — portare  jugum, — (I  told  ye  that 
before,)  and  ye'll,  maybe,  be  high  enough,  by-and-by. 
Take  a  bit  of  advice  off  me,  and  don't  mind  um." 

"  I  shall  take  it,  pleasantly,  I  hope,  and  do  my  duty  by 
him,  too ;  Tve  come  about  important  business,  Father 
Terence,  concerning  the  Church." 

Father  Terence's  countenance  prepared  to  rise  at  this 
reference  to  himself  (as  was  proper)  of  important  church- 
business  ;  but  in  the  end,  it  fell. 


i''|la 


Jl 


lii?; 


•*    !!! 


Ml'   ( ', 


'I 'SI  I'll 


I! 


!■ 

; 

i>-  ■  i ! 

II' li 

r 

■1 

M|i  •'  .,= 

','? 

HmiI 

ik. 

JM 

336 


THE  NKW  PRIKST. 


"And  (lid  yo  tell  him,  yet?"  said  the  difinitary.  iook- 
ing  a  little  annoyed  at  the  prospect  of  this  important 
business,  or  at  the  idea  of  its  being  of  such  a  cliaracter  as 
to  have  already  s(!t  his  two  juniors  jit  variance. 

"Oh  no!"  said  Father  Debrce,  "  what  I  have  to  say 
could  not  be  saiti,  projx^rly,  to  ;uiy  but  yourself." 

Reassured  by  (his  information,  the  worthy  old  Pri(*st 
began  gradually  to  take  on  his  importance,  and  awaited 
the  opening  of  the  business  eomi)lacently. 

"  It  concerns  the  yoinig  girl  nii.-sing  from  P<^terport. 
It  is  gen(>rally  believed  that  she  has  been  carried  off," 
said  Father  Debree,  by  way  of  stating  the  case. 

The  ex[)ression  in  the  senior's  face  changed,  as  the  hue 
in  the  evening  cloud  changes ;  hi "  look  of  dignity  was 
passing  into  oni;  of  moderate  indignation.  The  change 
seemed  to  puzzle  his  companion.  "  You  know  about  her, 
I  believe?"  he  asked. 

"  Indeed  I  do,  then,"  answered  Father  Terence,  with 
much  dignity  and  some  asperity.  The  other  continued, 
with  a  doubtful  look,  but  with  the  respectful  manner  he 
had  used  frc^m  the  first :  "  Perhaps  you're  aw{*.re,  already, 
of  what  I  was  going  to  say  ?" 

"  Indeed,  and  it's  likely  I  may,"  said  the  dignitary.  "An* 
could  not  yerself  leave  it,  without  coming  to  stand  up 
against  your  superiors  in  the  Church?  I  think  some- 
thing must  have  come  over  ye."  With  these  words,  the 
superior  drew  himself  up  in  his  chair. 

"  But,  Father  Terence,  if  there  was  -^^rong  presumptive 
evidence,  I  think  you'd  be  one  of  (he  last  men  to  discredit 
it,  without  sifting,"  said  the  other. 

"  Sure,  I  don't  know  who  would  know  better  than  me- 
self  that  it's  all  lies." 

"  But,  surely,  in   an  affair  of  such  consequence,  you 


I  i '«..>,. If 


FATHER   DEBREK   AT   BAY-IIARBOR  AGAIN.      337 

wouldn't  take  it  for  grantiul ?"   urged   Father   De- 

bree. 

"  Would  I  take  it  for  granted  I  hadn't  swallowed  me- 
pelf?'    asked  the  elder,  xcry  decidedly. 

"  But  this  is  fjcar('(>ly  a  parallel  case,"  said  the  other, 
with  polite  per.severanee. 

"  Isn't  it,  then  ?     Sure,  I  think  I  needn't  examine  to 
show  meself  that  I  hadn't  stolen  a  girl  in  Peterport!" 

"  Ah !  but  you  couldn't  say,  confid<,'ntly,  that  another 
had  not." 

"  But  I  don't  speak  of  others  ;  it's  meself  I  speak  of." 

"  But  why  shouldn't  we  speak  of  others,  when  others 
are  concerned  ?  " 

"Then  ye  were  not  aware,"  said  Father  Terence, — this 
turn  of  the  conversation  making  him  throw  aside — as  he 
was  always  very  glad  to  do — his  annoyance  and  dignified 
reserve,  and  resuming  his  hearty  kindliness,  when  he 
thought  he  saw  through  the  case,  and  that  the  younger 
priest  was  imperfectly  informed,  "  it's  meself  that  they're 
after  accusing." 

"  I  never  heard  that,"  answered  the  younger. 

"  Indeed,  it's  easy  seeing  ye  didn't,"  said  Father  Ter- 
ence again. 

"  I  think  that  must  be  a  mistake,"  said  the  younger 
priest. 

"  Indeed,  I  think  so  meself;  and  I'm  middling  sure  of 
it,"  said  the  senior,  a  smile  venturing  again  into  his 
lliee. 

"  I  mean,  I  think  it  must  be  a  mistake  that  you  were 
i^uspected.  Of  course,  no  one  who  knew  you  could  doubt, 
for  a  moment,  whether  you  were  innocent." 

"  It  was  Father  Nicholas  told  me,  then ;  and  there's 
not  manny  a  one  hears  more  than  him.     It's  only  a  few 

22 


!!l 


;^B 


i'-a  >, 


Mi 


1,1. J 

I 


3.38 


THE   NEW   TKIEST. 


days  ago  lie  said,  the  people — that's  the  Protestants — were 
saying  all  sorts  of  things,  and  suspecting  the  Catholic 
priests,  and,  as  he  said,  meself  's  at  the  head  of  them, 
'  and  ye  might  as  well  suspect  his  Holiness  himself,'  said 
he." 

"  I've  come  from  the  midst  of  it,  and  I  heard  nothing 
of  you ;  but  1  know  that  he  is  suspected  ;  and  there  are 
strange  circumstances,  such  as,  for  his  own  sake,  he  ought 
to  explain." 

The  dignitary's  countenance  lighted  up,  decidedly,  as 
he  answered : — 

"  Indeed,  that's  another  horse  of  the  one  color,  as  they 
say.  So  they've  left  meself  off,  and  taken  on  suspecting 
him!  But,  then,"  he  continued,  "I'm  fearful  it's  jusL  his 
being  my  own  coadjutor  that's  made  them  do  it;"  and  a 
generous  feeling  of  not  allowing  another  to  suffer  for  him, 
exhibited  itself  in  his  face.  "  They  think  he's  younger, 
and  not  so  conspikyis,  and  easier  handled." 

"  No,"  answered  the  other ;  "  I  think  you  were  always 
above  suspicion ;  but  they  have  always,  I'm  told,  sus- 
pected him,  and  the  impression,  that  he  is  involved  in  it 
as  principal,  has  been  growing  from  the  first." 

"  And  how  would  he  tell  meself,  then,  it  was  me  they 
were  at?"  asked  the  elder,  not  quite  seeing  his  way  out 
of  the  enigma.  Leaving  the  answer  to  this  question  to 
turn  up  by-and-by,  he  hurried  on  upon  the  new  path  that 
presented  itself  to  him.  "  What's  this  they  say  about  um, 
then  ?  Do  they  say  he's  stolen  her  ?  And  how  would  he 
get  her?" 

To  this  crowd  of  questions,  Mr.  Debree  answered  col- 
lectively. 

"  She  disapj)eared  in  the  night  or  morning,  and  is 
known  to  have  been  at  or  near  the  house  that  he  visited 


FATHKrw  DKP.RKK    AT    RAY-Tl ATIBOR   AGAIN.      3oU 


VK.  n  ^ 


tlmt  ni^^lit  wllli  two  iniiis  ;  and  one  more  {"cniali!  cani(5 
back  in  Ins  punt,  from  that  lious(?,  than  went  to  it." 

"  lint, — don't  ye:  see  ? — ho  wouiihi't  ho  carryin;^  icniales 
about  at  ni«!;lit  in  a  punt." 

'•  llo  took  two  Si>ti;rs  up  with  him,  you  know,  Falhcr 
Terence." 

A  recollection  of  the  propos(Ml  plan  of  Fath(!r  Nicho- 
las's chantid)le  excnirsion  of  that  night,  probably  came  up 
to  the  elder  i)riest  at  this  suggestion. 

"  But  he  would  never  have  carried  off  a  Protestant 
girl.  What  would  he  do  the  like  of  that  for  ?  Sure  a 
man  can't  carry  oiF  all  that's  Protestants." 

Mr.  Debree  repeated  the  tenor  of  the  conversation  be- 
tween himself  and  Father  Nicholas. 

"  But  he  wouldn't  be  doing  the  like  without  asking  me- 
self  for  leave  or  license.  And  where  do  they  think  has 
he  sent  her,  when  he  got  her  ?  " 

"  They  say,  Pm  told,  that  she's  with  the  Sisters,  here, 
in  the  Mission  premises  ;  but  what  authority  they  have 
for  saying  so,  I  don't  know." 

"  Ah  !  thin,  it's  little  Pve  troubled  that  place  since  they 
were  in  it.  Only  once  I  was  in  it,  at  his  asking.  But, 
sure,  would  he  bring  her  here  without  ever  so  much  as 
saying  '  with  yer  leave,'  or  '  by  yer  leave  ! '  It's  not 
likely  he  would,  and  me  at  the  head  o'  the  District." 

The  venerable  head  of  the  dignitary  swung  silently 
and  solemnly,  twice,  from  side  to  side,  as  he  resolved  this 
question  in  the  negative. 

"  I  don't  know  what  they  go  upon  for  that ;  but  I  think 
the  other  circumstances  deserve  to  be  examined." 

The  senior  looked  perplexed  again,  and,  reverting  to 
his  own  experience  of  his  "  coadjutor,"  said, — 

"  But  how  '11  we  find  out,  if  he  won't  tell  us  ?" 


m 


>* 


% 

■i 

I" 


m 


m    ■ 

-1  ■      ,1 


310 


HE  NEW  PRIEST. 


I 


I  ;'■ 


"  The  law  won't  wait  tor  him  to  tell." 

"  But,  sure,  ye'rc  not  for  taking  the  law  of  a  priest ! 
and  him  yer  superior,  too  ?  " 

"  Of  course,  not  I ;  but  suppose  the  friends  bring  the 
law  down  here!  Wouldn't  it  be  well,  by  a  timely  atten- 
tion, to  remove  the  occasion  of  suspicion  "i  " 

"  But  I'm  satisfied  we'll  never  get  it  out  of  him,  at  all." 

"  Can't  you  do  this,  Father  Terence ;  can't  you  find  out 
whether  she  is  hero,  «jr  has  been  here  ?  " 

Faihcr  Terence  looked  very  reluctant  to  enter  upon 
any  such  work  as  was  projjosed. 

"  Ii's  not  that  easy  done,"  he  said.  "  I  have  no  knowl- 
edge of  the  place,  at  ail,  more  than  Solomon's  temple." 

"  It  isn't  for  me  to  suggest,  Father  Terence ;  but  it's 
not  a  very  large  place,  and  if  the  Sisters  were  exam- 
ined  " 

"It's  ei.-sy  just  stepping  over  yerself,  then,  and  we'll 
know  in  a  jiffy.  I'll  give  ye  a  bit  of  note  to  introduce 
ye,"  said  Father  Terence,  having  devised  a  simple  and 
ready  way  of  satisfying  Mr.  Debree,  and,  very  likely, 
everybody  else. 

"'  But,  Father  Terence,  though  I  feel  sincerely  for  the 
father,  and  though  it's  natural,  from  the  position  I  hold  at 
Peterport,  for  me  to  wish  the  thing  cleared  up,  and  proper 
for  me  to  mention  it  to  you^  it  would  not  be  my  part,  in 
any  way,  to  set  myself  about  investigating  in  your  premi- 
ses.    It  seems  to  me  that  you  are  the  proper  person." 

Father  Terence  was  no  coward,  but  he  seemed  very 
loth  to  undertake  this  business.  Lighting  his  pipe,  which 
he  hjid  not  yet  lighted,  and  suffering  the  smc^3  to  float 
about  his  head,  like  clouds  about  the  nionntain's  crest,  he 
summoned  a  council  in  the  midst  o.C  it,  as  Pope  makes 
Homer  say,  that — 


^^r\ 


't  M 


FATHER   DEBREE   AT   BAY-HARBOR  AGAIN.      Oil 

"Jove  convened  a  senate  of  the  skies, 
Where  high  Olympus'  cloudy  tops  arise." 

From  this  deliberation,  after  a  time,  he  proclaimed — 

'"  I've  found,  mostly,  it's  best  not  inquii-ing  into  things." 

"  But  when  things  will  be  inquired  into  by  the  law,  if 
we  do  nothing  about  them  ;  and  the  consequences,  to  our- 
selves and  the  Church,  may  be  very  serious ;  is  it  not 
worth  our  while  to  anticipate  that  investigation  and  its 
consequences  ?  " 

"  What  would  hinder  yourself  speaking  to  him  ? " 
asked  Father  Terence,  personifying,  in  the  masculine 
gender,  the  object  of  the  inquiry.  The  other  priest  took 
it  simply,  as  it  was  said,  and  answered  : — 

"  I  cannot  as  properly  do  it,  being,  as  I  am,  his  junior ; 
but  I'm  not  at  all  afraid  to  have  him  know  what  I  have 
said,  if  you  should  think  fit  to  enter  upon  the  subject,  and 
will  say  it  all  in  his  presence,  if  called  upon  to  do  it." 

"  Ay,  then,  we'll  see  about  it,"  concluded  the  dignitary, 
and  finishing  his  pipe,  shook  from  it  the  white  ashes,  re- 
filled it,  but  then,  instead  of  rekindling  it,  laid  it  aside, 
and  asking — 

"  Did  ye  hear  the  pig  out,  beyond  in  the  garden  ? " 
started  forth  as  if  upon  some  errand  about  the  live-stock 
of  the  Mission,  requesting  Father  Debree  to  amuse  him- 
self for  a  while  alone. 

The  door  had  scarcely  closed  upon  him,  than  it  opened 
again  to  let  him  in. 

"I  beg  pardon,"  said  he,  lieartily,  "I'm  forgetting  to 
offer  ye  any  thing  ; "  and  taking  a  black  quart  bottle  from 
under  a  table  near  the  wall,  and  ilnding,  somewhere,  a 
tumbler  that  had  lost  a  piece  of  itself,  he  proposed  to 
exercise  the  hospitality  of  the  time  and  country,  in  his 
own  kindly  way.    Clearly,  no  drinker,  our  good  father  ! 


'i 


r . 

! 

;;■!  '.K 


i ;  I  ' 


342 


THE  NEW   TRIEST. 


"  Here's  some  su/^ar  tliat  T  keep  convenient,"  said  he, 
drawing  forward,  with  his  stout  hand,  a  paper  with  yield- 
ing contents.  "  Ah  !  no,  then,  it's  this  must  be  it,"  he 
continued,  substituting  one  of  tlie  same  blue  color,  but 
not,  like  the  first,  redolent  of  tobacco. 

He  had  just  produced  a  teacup  without  handle,  which 
he  called  the  mate  of  the  tumbler. 

"  Our  furniture  's  not  quite  equal  to  the  King's  or  the 
Pope's,'  he  said,  by  way  of  apology,  "  but  I've  store  of 
glasses  in  the  house." 

Father  Debree  declined,  with  many  thanks,  the  hearty 
hospitality  offered,  and  was,  at  length,  again  lefl  alone, 
with  an  apology. 


m 


FATHER  O'TOOLE'S  ASSISTANT. 


343 


CHAPTER  XXX vm. 


FATHER    o'tOOLE's    ASSISTANT. 


ATHER  O'TOOLE,  on  leaving  the  other  priest, 
went  out  at  the  outer  door  of  the  house,  and — 
no  pig  appearing,  in  tlie  course  of  his  circuit  of 
the  narrow  grounds  of  the  Mission, — visited  his  geese 
and  ducks,  and  lieard  a  chorus  of  contented  grunts  from 
the  dwellers  in  the  stye.  At  length,  turning  away  with 
decision,  he  again  entered  the  house. 

With  a  good,  solid,  steady  step  he  mounted  up  the 
stairs,  shut  a  door  or  so,  and  then,  knocking  one  loud  and 
several  lesser  knocks  (which  expressed  resolution, — quali- 
fied,— )  quoted,  aloud,  one  line  of  a  hymn  : — 

" '  C  celeste  pulset  ostium.' "  * 

From  within  the  door  at  which  he  stood,  came  forth — 

" '  Vitale  toUat  praemium : '  t 

Please  come  in.  Reverend  Father." 

And  Father  O'Toole  entered. 

The  room  was  much  more  substantial-looking  and 
elegant  than  the  rest  of  the  house  in  which  it  was.  The 
woodwork,  generally,  was  painted  of  a  dark  color ;  that 
of  the  chimney  was  black  and  varnished.  Well  propor- 
tioned book  shelves  of  black,  varnished  wood,  and  well 
filled  with  handsome  books,  covered  a  portion  of  the  wall ; 

•  Let  him  knock  at  heaven's  door, 
t  And  take  life  forevernun-e. 


1 

■ 

«i»»,>  n 


11 


I  m 


m 


nil 


THE  NKW  riui:sT. 


I 


1i' 


»  I; 


j  i!. ' 


the  wall-papor  wa.^  slato-colorod,  with  hhick  hoivh'r.  A 
ahit('-('()lor('(l  (h'()j)-('iirtain  \\u\\<^  partly  down  hclbro  the 
window.  Not  every  thiii'^  in  I  Ik;  room  was  elegant 
or  eostly ;  hnt  some  things  wen;  rich,  and  all  were 
tasteful. 

The  table  at  whicdi  the  oeenpant  of  the  room  sat,  had 
a  cover  of  blaek  broadcloth,  with  a  narrow  (mI;^,.  of 
velvet  of  the  same  eolor  ;  a  pricdieu*  stwul  at  a  little  dis- 
tance behind  it,  a^rainst  a  folding-screen  adorned  with 
boldly-marked  crayon  drawings  of  sill<'gori<!  subjects.  The 
pricdieu,  itself,  was  decorated  with  black  silk  velvet  turned 
up  with  silk.  Upon  the  top,  and  Hanked  on  each  side 
by  a  wax  candle,  was  a  crucifix  about  three  feet  high, 
supcu'bly  W!  ought  in  ivory.  A  painful  representation  of 
Our  Lord's  agony  on  the  cross,  like  what  may  be  seen  in 
German  churches,  hung  opposite  the  window. 

A  perfect  match  tor  the  surroundings  was  the  man  sit 
ting  at  the  table,  with  his  ivory  tl-atures  and  black,  glossy 
hair  and  dress  ; — for  there  sat  Father  Nicholas  as  we 
before  described  him,  resting  his  feet,  in  black  velvet 
slippers,  on  a  hassock  of  the  same  material  beneath  the 
table.  There  was  now  hanijino;  on  his  bosom,  by  a  black 
bead-chain  from  his  neck,  a  miniature  of  a  fair,  saintly 
female,  with  hands  clasped  and  eyes  looking  upward. 

He  arose,  with  much  dignity  atid  humility,  at  once,  as 
the  other  entered,  laying  down  a  book  opcm,  on  the  back 
of  which,  in  very  distinct  letters,  was  the  name :  "  Exercit. 
Spirit.  S.  Ignatii." 

"  I  am  very  proud  to  see  you  in  my  room.  Reverend 
Father,"  said  he ;  "  will  you  be  so  kind  as  to  occupy  this 
chair,  an  easier  one  than  mine,  and  more  appropriate  to 
years  and  honors  ?  " 

He  wheeled  out,  accordingly,  a  comfortable  arm-chair 

*  Prav'^r-doHik. 


V^    K 


FATIIKK  U'TUOLK'S  ASSISTANT. 


31.1 


of  stufTcd  inoi'occo,  into  wliicli  the  sciudi',  with  a  some- 
wliat  awkward,  Itiit  siiicrrc  and  sctlid  conrtcsv,  siilVcrcd 
liimsL'ir  to  descend  gradually,  and  thru  (a  little  .suddenly,) 
drop. 

"Always  well  <Miga;;ed.  Ah  !  what  a  happy  thing  to 
liave  that  leisure  from  great  and  <'onstaut  eares  that  will 
permit  of  holy  studies.  Jt  was  mine,  onec.  'Twas  my 
own,  once.  IJut  th(jre's  many's  the  candle  is  put  under 
a  bush(d  without  our  meaning  it.  IJefore  I  found  my 
})la('e  I  thought  often  of  making  a  hit  of  a  bhi/e  in  the 
world,  some  way  ;  hut  now  all  that  is  metamorpliosed  en- 
tirely. 'Introduction!'  ah!  what's  this,  then?  Oh! 
Saint  Francis  de  Sales.  French,  I  suppose.  Oh !  to  bo 
sure.  '  Chapitre  XI ; ' — chaj)t(jr  Eh'venth.  That's  i)hiia 
enough.  '  Of  the  exercise  of* — sometliing  or  other,  'and 
examen  of  the  consci(mce.'  It  woul(hi't  he  so  hard  after 
all;  but  considcu'ing  it  isn't  every  body  that  learns  French, 
it  would  have  been  small  blame  to  the  holy  man  if  he 
had  written  in  plain  English  that  every  one  understands, 
or  in  Latin  itself." 

"  You  wished  to  see  me  on  business,  I  believe,  Father 
Terence,"  said  Father  Nicholas  very  engagingly,  laying 
his  watch  carefully  down  upon  the  table.  "  I  liope  you 
won't  be  afraid  of  interrui)ting  me,  for  I'm  quite  at  your 
service." 

Somewhere  in  this  calm  courtesy,  or  in  the  action  that 
accompanied  the  words,  there  must  have  been  something 
peremptory  or  in  some  way  embarrassing,  for  the  digni- 
tary's good-natured  face  and  eyes  testified  to  such  a  feel- 
ing. 

"  Indeed  a  good  deal  of  business  we  have  together,"  he 
answered,  for  the  time,  not  being  prepared,  perhaps,  to 
answer  more  definitely  on  the  sudden. 


hi 


I 


340 


THE  NEW   PRIEST. 


Il  iffi 


Si      M. 


m 


m 


"  Our  Sisters  are  inclined  to  complain  that  they  never 
have  the  benefit  of  a  visit  from  the  head  of  the  mission," 
said  Father  Nicholas  again,  smiling.  "  Will  you  allow 
me  to  pray  for  them,  while  it's  on  my  mind,  that  you'll 
honor  them  and  favor  thera  in  that  way  before  long  ? 
Excuse  me  for  taking  the  conversation  away.     I  listen." 

If  he  listened,  he  listened  to  small  purpose.  The  dig- 
nitary sat  uneasily ;  prepared  to  speak  by  clearing  his 
throat,  and  looking  to  either  side.  In  doing  this,  if  he 
did  not  prepare  himself  tor  proceeding  to  business,  he,  at 
ler-i^t,  secured  a  subject  for  a  passing  diversion  of  the 
conversation. 

Taking  up  something  from  the  floor,  under  the  table, 
which  proved  to  be  a  glove,  he  laid  it  upon  a  book,  ob- 


servmg,- 


"  Y'have  a  small  hand  of  yer  own,  if  ye  can  put  that 
on  it." 

Father  Nicholas's  hands  were  quite  small  and  graceful, 
as  one  might  sec  who  looked  at  them ;  but  this  glove  was 
smaller  and  more  slender  still,  apparently.  It  looked  like 
one  in  frequent  use.  Such  as  it  was,  it  seemed  strange 
in  that  place,  and  the  occupant  of  the  room  seemed  to  feel 
awkwardly  at  the  first  sight.  Leaving  it,  however,  to  he 
where  it  was,  he  spoke  very  freely  of  it. 

"  No,"  said  he,  "  that's  not  mine.  It's  a  lady's,  appar- 
ently ;  and,  probably,  belongs  to  one  of  the  Sisters.  How 
it  came  there,  I  can't  say ;  but  things  often  come  and  go 
between  them  and  me.     This  might  come  in  a  parcel." 

The  elder  priest  looked  grave.  He  might  not  have 
thought  of  there  being  any  other  proprietor  of  this  ar- 
ticle of  apparel  than  the  occupant  of  the  room  until  he 
was  told  it ;  but  having  heard  what  he  had  heard,  he 
seemed  to  have  mastered  his  difficulty  of  speal^ing,  and 


■■h1Wf^#: 


to  feel 
[•,  to  lie 


FATHER  OTOOLE'S  ASSISTANT. 


347 


tlie  occasion  brought  liim,  most  unexpectedly,  to  the  very 
subject  on  \Yhich  he  and  Father  Debree  had  been  talking. 

"  It's  my  opinion,"  he  said,  "  it's  better  not  having  too 
much  to  do  with  women,  if  they're  nuns,  itself.  The  old 
rules  for  priests  are  the  good  rules.  I'm  thinking.  Your- 
self's  perfectly  innocent,  certainly ; — it's  not  that  I'm 
speaking  of ; — but  bad  tilings  happen  sometimes  ;  and  it's 
good  for  the  like  of  us  to  be  a  long  way  from  evil  tongues. 
They're  saying  now,  ye've  got  that  young  Protestant  girl 
from  Peterport." 

The  good-natured  Father  Terence  had  uttered  his  first 
two  sentences  with  the  confidence  of  a  man  speaking 
truths  of  general  acceptation.  At  that  point  where  it 
may  have  occurred  to  him  that  he  was  making  a  per- 
sonal application  of  general  principles,  and  assuming  a 
superiority  which  he  was  always  dlfiident  about  asserting, 
his  usual  kindness  of  feeling  came  over  him,  and  he 
went  precipitately  over  the  next  sentence,  and  by  the 
time  he  came  to  the  last  very  important  one,  which  con- 
tained the  gist  of  his  whole  business,  it  might  have  ap- 
peared to  be  only  a  side  observation  to  withdraw  attention 
from  the  former. 

Father  Nicholas  had  been  sitting  with  steady  eyes  fixed 
upon  the  speaker,  and  the  most  easy,  well-bred  (or  elegant) 
air  of  listening ;  his  ivory  face  being  at  all  times  a  secure 
screen  for  any  thing  that  was  passing  behind  it,  unless  to 
a  very  keen  sight,  and  only  his  eyes  showing  a  little  more 
fire  than  usual. 

The  elder  having  ceased  to  speak,  he  made  answer. 

"  Scarcely  a  Pi'otestant,  Father  Terence ;  she  is  bap- 
tized a  Catholic ''' 

"  I  never  hard  that,"  said  the  elder.  "  She  didn't  get 
baptized  to  my  own  knowing." 


■  h 


I 


5? 


M 


81« 


THE   Ni:W   PRIEST. 


I:'   !'ni 


■  1 1  .■  ■ 


J  '■' 

1 

1    ;    |-- 

Imki 

"  No,  but  she  was  baptl/i'd  sixteen  years  ago,  as  your 
book  shows." 

"  That's  before  I  was  in  it." 

'•Yes,  it  was  in  Father  Dale's  time,  and,  if  you'll  bo 
kind  enoiij:!jh  to  look,  you'll  see  it." 

AVhile  the  worthy  old  priest  was  arr;in;:;ing  his  thoughts 
upon  this  subjeet,  and  very  likely  preparing  to  express 
an  opinion  upon  the  extent  of  thai  authority  whieh  the 
Chureh  had  aequired  by  the  secret  administration  of  that 
sacrament,  his  informant  was  waiting  to  allow  the  infor- 
mation to  take  possession.  When  Father  Terence  began 
to  speak,  and  had  got  so  far  as  to  say, — 

"  But  first  in  the  Fnglish  Church,  and  brought  up, 
and    i 5  " ,  then  he  was  gently  interrupted, — 

"  If  you  please,  Heverend  Father,  1  have  only  told 
lialf  my  story  yet.  Will  you  allow  me  to  tell  the  rest? 
You  know  it  as  well  as  I,  or  belter,  but  when  it's  all  put 
together,  it  may  make  a  difl'enMit  impression  from  any 
that  you  have  had.  AVe  all  know  her  mother  for  an 
apostate ;  to  save  her  child  would  be  a  triumph  " 

"  There's  many's  the  one's  the  same  way,  then,"  inter- 
rupted the  (^Ider  in  his  turn. 

"  ITa])pily,  as  1  have  good  reason  to  know,  she  very 
recently  put  herself,  of  her  own  accord,  in  the  way  to  be 
reconciknl.  If  she  had  drawn  back  afterward,  in  fever  or 
in  fear  of  the  step  that  she  was  taking,  it  would  have  been 
mercy  not  to  let  her  be  lost,  through  any  such  weakness. 
If  we  had  tjiken  aitt/  means  to  secure  her,  it  would  have 
been  simply  duty ;  but  as  the  girl  is  missing,  we  need  not 
speculate  upon  Avhat  might  have  been.  Let  it  be  a  con- 
solation to  you,  Father  Terence,  and  to  any  Catholic  that 
is  interested  in  one  so  related  to  the  Church,  that  she  was 
baptized  in  infancy,  and  had  made  an  effort  to  be  recon- 


FATHER   O'TOOLKS  ASSISTANT. 


319 


ciled.  That  suspicion  sliould  have  turiunl  from  you  to 
me,  does  not  surpris*;  mo,.  They  will  suspect,  and,  find- 
ing it  impossible  long  to  suspect  you,  they  put  one  less 
known,  and  less  generally  esteemed,  in  your  stead." 

He  did  not  stop  at  this  point;  but  hastened  to  touch  a 
subject  of  inij^ortance  vvliich  had,  perhaps,  sh])ped  from 
Fatlier  TeivMice's  mind. 

"You  speak  ti-uly  of  tlie  caution  and  distance  to  be  ob- 
served, as  regards  persons  of  tlie  oilier  sex.  My  dear 
Father  Terence,  if  there  were  any  thing  dangerous  or 
improper  in  a  priest  exercising  his  s.acred  function  singly, 
(and  I  grant  the  propriety  of  always  being  associated 
with  another  pri<;st  in  the  work,  ac(;ording  to  th(!  rule  and 
practice  of  tlie  Society,)  yet  how  is  it  that  so  much  care 
and  labor  and  responsibility,  in  regard  to  these  Sisters,  has 
been  throv;n  upon  me  against  my  wish?  I  do  not  com- 
plain;  I  might  not  have  mentioned  it  now,  except  for 
what  has  been  said;  but  I  am  sure  that  not  only  ir 
would  have  been  the  greatest  pleasure  to  me,  as  well  as 
privilege  to  them,  but,  also,  I  have  re[)eatedly  begged,  in 
person,  the  favor  of  Father  O'Toole's  joint  and  sup(;rior 
supervision.  I  should  be  very  glad  to  hope  that  hereafter 
it  might  be  secured." 

The  assault  was  fairly  turned  upon  the  dignitary, 
whether  by  accident  of  war  or  by  Father  Nicholas's  skill; 
and  the  good-natured  man  began  to  defend  himself. 

"It's  true  I  did  not  do  much  in  that  way  this  while 
hack.  The  truth  is,  I  don't  fancy  that  sort  of  work,  when 
it  doesn't  come  pat  in  my  way.  In  parish-duty  it's  my 
desire  to  be  diligent ;  but  I'm  not  accustomed  to  females, 
and  I'm  not  for  having  charge  of  a  House  o'  them." 

"  Pray  forgive  me,"  said  the  other  priest,  "  it  isn't  for 
me  to  call  you  to  account,  or  to  complain. — Is  our  Peter- 


■f^m.m 


i 


\i 


m 


m 


.  w 


!ff 


Hi: 


\'\P-^ 


■:    r 


','3 


~==?9a 


:JPc 

350 


THE  NEW   PRIEST. 


port  inan  happy  in  his  place?  I  can't  find  out  any  thing, 
pleav'iantly,  from  liim." 

"  Faith,  then,  I'd  forgotten  him ;  he'll  take  care  of  him- 
self, a  bit ;  but  I  mustn't  leave  him  too  long,  this  way.** 

"  Doii't  allow  me  to  detain  you,"  said  Father  Nicholas ; 
"  but  vou  had  some  business  with  me,  I  think.  I  fear  I've 
interrupted  it." 

The  elder  priest  looked  disconcerted. 

"  Will  ye  see  hira  yourself,  then  ?  "  he  asked,  gathering 
himself  out  of  his  seat,  and  preparing  to  go.  Father 
Nicholas  rose  politely  ;  but  with  a  changed  expression. 

"  I  thought  there  had  been  some  modest  and  charitable 
suggestion  of  Debree's,"  said  he  ;  "  he's  a  young  gentle- 
man that  will  need  to  be  taught  his  place.  If  you'll  aUow 
me,  I'll  come  down.  I'll  follow  you  directly,  Father 
Terence." 

And  Father  Terence  took  his  leave. 


'h 


THE  THREE  PRIESTS  TOGETHER. 


351 


hii 


CHArXER   XXXIX. 

THE   THREE    PRIESTS    TOGETHER. 

pBfOlIEi  good-natured  Fatlur  Terence  came  hastily 
■^  back  from  his  visit  up  stairs  to  Father  Nicholas, 
and  prepared  his  guest  for  what  he  himself 
Feemed  to  consider  a  formidable  interview,  by  announ- 
cing, in  a  rather  flurried  way, — 

"  Himself 's  coming,  but  don't  heed  him." 
Whoever  has  waited  for  an  encounter,  of  the  sort  that 
WLo  now  approaching,  has  felt  the  nervous  excitement  to 
which  Father  Debree's  face,  slightly  flushed  as  it  was, 
and  his  kindling  eye,  gave  witness  in  him.  The  elder 
priest  seemed  to  feel  like  one  who  had  innocently  opened 
a  flood-gate,  or  set  some  formidable  machinery  in  motion 
which  he  knew  not  how  to  stop,  and  could  only  stand  and 
look  upon,  as  it  rushed  on. 

"  I'm  not  concerned  about  meeting  him,"  said  the 
younger ;  and,  as  he  spoke.  Father  Nicholas  came  in. 

The  contrast  in  personal  appearance  between  the  two 
men  who  were  about  to  meet,  was  very  noticeable.  Fa- 
tlier  Debree  looked  as  if  his  soul  were  woven  into  the 
whole  substance  of  his  body.  There  was  a  nobleness  of 
air  and  manner  about  him  that  at  once  engaged  one's  confi- 
dence ;  and  his  face,  full  of  earnestness,  and  his  clear  eye, 
had  yet  a  gentleness  that  showed  a  living  sympathy  which 
is  very  winning  to  love.     Father  Nicholas  was  handsome 


r   '!! 


0 


*  ^yJ> 


■  ■■ 

■  ,fil 

i 

^^^^mH 

1 

i 

mm 

III 

352 


THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


ilr^ 


;!' 


^'NM'T'''^^ 


.1  n 


I.I 


beyond  the  common  range,  intelligent  and  thoughtful- 
looking, — giving  one,  indeed,  the  impression  that  there 
was  might  in  hi:n  ;  and  yet  there  was  a  fe<'ling,  also,  that 
within  him  were  unseen,  douhtful  depths,  sueh  as  some 
j)e()ple  trust  them  to  and  others  shrink  from,  by  simple 
intuition. 

So  much  was  on  the  outside  of  the  two  men  ;  and  at 
the  moment,  while  Father  Debree  had  a  slight  flush  upon 
his  cheek,  and  in  his  eye  a  tire,  as  we  have  said.  Father 
Nicholas  came  into  the  room  and  saluted  him,  (after  bow- 
ing to  the  elder  priest,)  with  his  usual  look  of  self-posses- 
sion and  his  usual  paleness  ;  though  perhaps  his  eye 
flashed  and  his  mouth  wfis  a  little  compressed. 

"  I  may  come  to  my  business  without  preface,  I  sup- 
pose," said  the  latter.  "  I  believe  you  have  taken  upon 
yourself  to  speak  to  Father  O'Toole  of  suspicions  enter- 
tained of  me  in  Peterport.  I  am  not  much  concerned 
about  the  public  opinion  of  that  intelligent  town  ;  but  I 
think  I  have  a  right  to  ask  on  what  ground  you  hav;  be- 
come their  representative  and  spokesman." 

"  Ay,  and  don't  be  warm.  Father  Nicholas,  either ; 
sure  it's  asy  speaking  of  things  in  a  quiet  way,"  said  Fa- 
ther O'Toole. 

"  I  have  mentioned  the  reports  current,"  said  Father 
Debree,  "  as  deserving,  in  my  opinion,  to  be  counted  of 
importance  to  the  Church,  and  of  still  greater  importance 
to  right  and  justice." 

"  Allow  me  to  inquire  how." 

"  To  the  Church,  because  its  ministers  are  implicated, 
by  general  suspicion,  in  a  cruel  outrage ;  and  to  right  and 
justice,  because,  whether  there  is  any  ground  for  the  sus- 
picion or  not,  full  investigation  ought  to  be  demanded,  and 
every  assistance  given  to  an  investigation." 


'tW;#' 


THE  THREE  PRIESTS   TOGETHER. 


3r)3 


"  Let  us  take  things  quietly,  as  the  Very  Reverend 
Father  O'Toole  recommends.  Suppose  the  Church's 
ministers  are  implicated,  (we  went  over  much  the  same 
ground  the  other  day,)  is  that  any  thing  new,  or  strange, 
or  bad,  in  itself?  Vce  vobis  cum  benedixerint, — beati  cum 
maledixerint*  As  to  right  and  justice,  in  case  we  had 
this  girl,  or  had  control  over  her,  I  suppose  we  might 
fairly  claim  to  know  something  of  them,  and  to  care 
something  for  them.  I  suppose,  too,  that  the  '  ministers 
of  the  Church '  (as  you  say)  have  some  rights  which  are 
of  value,  as  well  as  others.  I  suppose  their  freedom  and 
independence  to  be  of  some  consequence  to  themselves 
and  the  Church,  and,  in  my  own  person,  would  not  yield 
an  inch,  or  a  hair's  breadth,  the  rights  of  my  order.  If 
one  of  us  foolishly  put  himself  into  tlKiir  hands,  on  their 
demand,  others  will  be  at  their  mercy,  forever  after. 
For  the  Church — I  think  she  is  strong  enough  to  stand, 
for  some  years  yet,  all  the  blasting  of  men's  breath ;  and 
that  she  would  be  no  gainer  if  her  priests  were  at  the 
beck  of  the  multitude  of  her  enemies." 

Father  Debree  answered  : — 

''  I  cannot  see  how  innocent  men  can  have  any  other 
feeling  than  a  desire  for  a  thorough  searching  where  they 
have  been  unjustly  suspected,  and  where,  in  them,  a 
sacred  cause  suffers  suspicion  ;  and  I  cannot  see  how 
private  right  has  any  thing  to  fear  in  such  a  case  ; — and 
where  a  quiet  and  kind-hearted  people  are  touched  and 
hurt  in  their  best  feelings  ;  and  more,  where  a  family  is 
suffering  the  greatest  sorrow  that  can  af!lict  human  hearts, 
— the  loss,  by  some  uncertain  fate,  of  its  very  fairest  and 
dearest,  its  joy  and  its  crown, — it  does  not  seem  to  me  too 
much  to  expect  of  any  who  have  it  in  their  power  to 

*  Woe  to  you  when  thoy  shall  have  blessed  you!  happy  shall  ye 
be  when  they  shall  have  cursed  you! 

23 


1  fi: 


■'  fvmSt 
B      f: 


354 


THK  NEW  rUIKST. 


M  '^ 

1    f 

if'       ,: 

' 

ri 

iU , 

i 

"'.ii 

I  I 

'I 

ir' 


'■{'■ 


,li 


I 


I 


tr  i'j, 


h 


I'll  'l.' 


tlirow  light  into  tlie  unrortain  liorror  tluit  surrounds  tlioso 
innocent  mourncrf,  that  they  will  not  rest  until  they 
have  (lone  what  in  them  lies  to  cloar  it  uj)." 

"That's  well  said,"  exclaimed  Father  Teicnce,  who 
was  leaninj:^  forward  on  the  arms  of  his  chair,  while  the 
others  stood  facin,<^  ''ach  other — "and  the  right  feelinn:, 
too!" 

lather  Nicholn"  listened  devoutly  to  the  old  Priest's 
words,  aiid  ilj:!s  iuid,  with  a  bend  of  the  body, — 

"  With  your  leave,  i^ather  Terence  !  As  to  guilt  or 
innocence,  I  have  no  thought  of  pleading  here  ;  but  of 
my  fit  course  of  action,  under  the  suspicions  held  of  me, 
I  shall  crave  leave  to  judge.  I  am  by  no  means  pre- 
pared to  say  that  I  should  consider  any  human  affections 
in  comparison  with  the  saving  of  a  soul,  if  I  were  called 
to  determine  between  the  two.  In  this  case,  however,  as 
it  happens,  I  have  not  been  gloating  over  the  sorrows  of 
parents  whom  I  liad  plunged  in  mourning,  but  have  done 
what  was  n<'cessan'  to  relieve  them  from  uncertainty,  as 
far  as  respects  myself. — What  do  you  think  of  that,  sir  ?" 
he  concluded,  putting  a  paper  into  Father  Debree's  hand. 
It  was  a  copy  of  a  Conception-Bay  weekly  newspaper, 
published  the  day  before ;  and  it  was  folded  so  as  to  ex- 
pose a  })articular  portion,  to  which,  also,  he  pointed  with 
his  finger.  The  other  read  the  paper  attentively  and 
carefully,  having  first  glanced  from  the  top  to  the  bottom, 
as  to  a  signature.  He  then  returufid  it,  with  a  bow,  with- 
out comment. 

"  I  beg  pardon,  Father  Terence,  for  using  this  paper 
before  making  you  acquainted  with  its  contents,  if  you'll 
allow  me,  I  will  read  it." 

"  Ah !  then,  it's  bad  enough  having  words,  let  alone 


writmg. 


"  Perhaps,  if  you'll  be  kind  enough  to  hear  this  read, 


IS 


THE  TIlliKK   I'KUCSTS   TOGETUEK. 


355 


you  may  not  think  ill  of  it,  Father  Terence  " — and  look- 
ing up  'it  the  el;ler  priest,  und  taking  liis  assent  for  granted, 
FatlKT  Nicholas  read  as  follows  : — 

"  IJay-IIiirbor,  ss.  Northern  District  of  NcwToundhiiid, 
—  Day  of  Auf^ust,  in  the  Year  of  our  Lord, . 

"  Tiie"  personally  ajjprarcd  before  me,  Petcu'  McMan- 
nikin,  Justice  of  the  I'eace,  dice.  6ci\  Nicholas  Crampton, 
a  priest  of  the  Catholic  Church,  rcsiiliiig  in  the  JMission- 
Premises,  in  said   liay-IIarbor,  and  being   duly  sworn, 
doth,  upon  his  oath,  depose  and  say  that  he,  the  r   id  de- 
ponent, has  understood  and  believes  that  a  youn;>  fe;    do 
has  lately  disappeared,  and  is  now  missing  fror .  ^hn  ,  ..r- 
bor  of  Peterport,  in   Concv;ption-Bay,  and   ti.;^.   L  ,  the 
Niid  deponent,  has  been,  or  is  suspected  by  m-„iiy  ^)er>',on9 
in  said  P'jterport  and  elsewhere,  of  huviiig  b     •   r,    being 
concerned,  witli  others,  in  the  keeping  of  said  young  per- 
son from  her  friends  ;  and  that  he,  the  said  de[)onent,  does 
not  know,  and  has  no  means  of  knowing,  where  the  said 
young  person  is,  nor  whether  she  is  living  or  dead  ;  nor 
does  he  know  any  persons  or  person  who  can  give  such 
information  ;  and  that  he  is  thoroughly  acquainted  with 
every  part  of  the  Mission-Premises  in   Bay-llarbor,  and 
with  the  building  occupied  by  certain  nuns,  upon  those 
premises  ;  and  is  fully  convinced  that  she  is  not  in   or 
upon  such  premises,  in  any  way  ;  and  said  deponent  fur- 
ther, upon  oath,  doth  declare  and  say,  that  if  lie,  the  said 
deponent,  knew  where  the  said  young  person  was,  or  what 
had  bf'^ome  of  her,  or  who  could  give  information  about 
her,  he  would  declare  it. 

Given  under,  &c.         Peter  McMannikin." 
"  I,  Nicholas  Crampton,  the  denonent  aforesaid,  having 
read  the  above,  do  sign  it,  in  token  that  it  is  a  true  copy 
of  the  deposition  by  me  made. 

August  — ,  A.  D. .     Nicholas  Crampton." 


ti 


,1   ^: 

in 

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356 


THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


I  I. 


ill 
'ill'! 


i^'fi'f 


lif! 


I:,   )i 


"  I'm  glad  to  liear  ye  say  that  much,  anny  way,"  said 
Father  Terence. 

"  Is  the  Reverend  Mr.  Debrec  satisfied  ?  "  asked  the 
reader. 

"  I  can't  see  that  it  denies  her  having  been  upon  these 
premises,"  said  the  person  appealed  to. 

"  You've  a  sharp  eye  for  flaws,  and  are  not  disposed  to 
release  a  brother  priest  from  suspicion,  too  easily,"  said 
Father  Nicholas,  sneering. 

"  Ah  !  then,"  said  the  kindly  Father  Terence,  "  ye 
shouldn't  doubt  his  meaning." 

"  I  should  be  glad  to  know,"  said  Father  Nicholas,  "  if 
I  am  to  be  badgered  in  this  way  by  a  priest  not  only 
younger  than  myself,  but  one  whose  recent  admission  and 
inexperience  in  the  Church  might  be  expected  to  teach 
him  modesty,  or,  at  least,  reserve,  in  the  expression  of  his 
opinions,  and  giving  of  his  advice  to  those  who  are  both 
his  elders,  and  his  superiors  in  the  sacred  office." 

"  Indeed  that  wouldn't  be  good  of  anny  one,"  said 
Father  Terence ;  "  but  sure  I  never  saw  it  on  him." 

Father  Nicholas  continued  :  "  There  may  be  license  in 
the  Anglican  sect,  which  does  not  exist  in  the  Catholic 
Church.  It  must  be  remembered,  always,  that  here  there 
is  subordination.  Whether  your  way  is  likely  to  advance 
you  in  the  Church,  you  must  judg'^  •;  but  as  far  as  regards 
myself,  I  am  not  disposed  to  allow  a  censorship  of  my  ac- 
tions, which,  if  intended,  and  persisted  in,  would  seem  to 
be  nothing  but  deliberate  impertinence." 

"  Stay,  brother,"  said  Father  Terence  ;  "  I  never  knew 
a  man  the  better,  yet,  of  having  hard  words  thrown  at 
him ;  and  ye'll  do  well  to  mind  that  there's  older,  again, 
than  yourself  in  it ;  and  Father  Debree  is  a  guest  of  my 
own  the  same  time." 


■r:  .  ': 


THi:  THREE  PRIESTS  TOGETHER. 


Si)7 


'*Tluink  you,  Father  Terence,"  said  the  Peterport 
chM-gymun  ;  "  I'm  sure  that  any  manly  truth  and  honesty 
will  find  enoouragenicnt  from  you,  I  cannot  say  what  in- 
fluence my  liavin;;^  a  conscirnce,  and  usirif?  my  tongue, 
may  liave  upon  my  prospects  in  the  Church  ;  hut  if,  to 
advance  in  it,  I  must  hartcr  away  my  English  love  of 
honesty  and  plain  s[)e!iking,  I  will  never  purchase  suc- 
cess at  su(!h  a  \n''uie.  There  is  not  the  man  living,  so  far 
as  I  know,  to  wiiom,  if  I  felt  it  my  duty  to  tell  him  that  he 
had  done  v  rong,  I  should  hesitate  to  say  it ;  while  I  will 
never,  knowingly,  fail  of  the  respect  and  duty  which  be- 
long to  those  who  are  above  me." 

Father  Nicholas  kept  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  speaker, 
in  a  steady  gaze,  while  a  smile  of  sarcasm  came  slowly 
about  his  mouth.     Father  Debree  colored  more  deeply. 

"  Since  a  sort  of  fraternal  inquisition  seems  to  be  in 
vogue  with  us,  allow  me  to  take  my  turn  for  a  moment. 
Does  my  strictly-conscientious  reverend  brother  happen 
to  know  where  one  Helen  Mary,  (or  whatever  she  was 
called,)  not  long  since  a  postulant  in  the  Presentation 
Convent  at  Lisbon,  and  who  ran  away  from  it,  is,  at  this 
present  moment  ?  " 

The  person  addressed  started  at  the  mention  of  the 
name,  and  became  instantly  pale  ;  such  an  eflfect  had  it 
upon  him,  that  his  frame  seemed  coming  together. 

"  It  may  be  necessary  to  remind  you.  Father  Terence," 
said  Father  Nicholas,  "  that  this  lady  is  the  Mrs.  Barre 
whom  you  have  heard  of.  I  believe  my  reverend  brother's 
susceptible  conscience  has  been  so  occupied  in  imputing 
fault  to  his  neighbor,  as  to  have  forgotten  the  danger  of 
scandal  to  the  church  from  a  much  nearer  quarter." 

"  Ah  !  what's  this,  then  ?  "  asked  Father  Terence,  turn- 
ing a  pained  and  alarmed  look  upon  the  priest  from  Pe* 


4i 


n:)8 


1 1  IK  Ni:\v  ruiKsr 


I,  i 


w> 


« 


^ 


M     J 


torpoii  ;  "  I  don'l  Know  wiml  yy  inran,  at  nil,  Futlirr 
Nii'lioliis  ;   I'm  sure  llirrc's  no  liann  in  liim." 

"  I''ar  lit'  il  iViim  me  lo  say  llial  (Ihit'h  any  liann  in 
liini ;  lull,  |)ri'lia|H,  wlxn  yon  lirar  inoir,  yon  may  in«'lin(> 
to  |]iinl<  thai  llio  circntnstanciv-^  arc  siicli  ax  to  make  it 
inipoilani,  a>^  lie  hmvs.  lo  llio  Clnncli,  an<l  to  \'\\i}\\  ami  jns- 
tico.  thai  an  cxplanalion  shonid  Im>  ma<l<>  (»t'  thnn.  I 
«ionht  Avlu'lln'i'  ln»  has  ihoniihl  ol"  mentioning:  tin'  rircnm- 
stancr  to  yon,  hnt  I  liavr  reason  to  know  that  this  lady  i^4 
coml'orlahly  scIINmI  within  his  limits,  and  within  a  very 
nhorl  distance  «>t'  him." 

"  'Phis  is  a  stranp'  story  !"  said  l*'ather  O'Tooh',  sitting 
uni>asily. 

*'  1  also  know  that  she  is  livinj;  in  IN'tcrpoi'l,"  anHWcrod 
tlie  priest  iVoni  that  place,  '*  and  I •" 

"  Hnt  how  is  this  ?  Snie,  ye  wonldn'l  l»(^  hrin/^inj^  her 
thero  to  he  a  snaro  to  yerseil',  aiul  a  scandal  to  tiic 
Chnrch ! " 

"Tso;  that   is   jnst  what  I  have  not   (him;;  and  what 

you,  FatluM'  Terence,  at   least,  would  not  suspect  nu;  of. 

It  is  by  no  action  or  wish  of  mine  that  she  is  IIum'o  ;  and 

it  was  lo  my  entire  astonishment  that  I  lirst  leanuul  the 

act. 

"  You  sciMu  to  hav<^  snlfcred  it  to  pjrow  info  a  mon; 
than  nin(*-days*  wonder,"  said  Father  Nicholas.  "Of 
course,  1  do  not  say  that  lh«>re's  any  harm  in  it  ;  hnt  it  is 
well  known  in  ihal  inleliiii'ent  communilv,  which,  as  lu; 
says,  has  devot«>d  so  nmcii  of  ils  allenlion  to  my  huinhle- 
ncss,  that  vscveral  meiMinsxs  and  conversations,  of  various 
character,  have  had  place  helween  this  lady  and  the 
Reverend  FatluM*  Dehree.  I,  of  course,  know  nolhin<;  of 
their  natun^,  whether  in  the  Confessional  or  in  private 
houL^es,  or  elsewhere." 


^.^ 


!  '•■•■ 


i  . 

TIIIC  TIIUKK   I'UIKSTS   T(HiK;niKU. 


;;;■' 


*'j 


(( 


n. 


OCH     sIm     COlIH" 


to    tl 


M«   ('(unrMsiorui 


I,   tl 


ICII 


n4 


kvA 


Fiillwr  ( J'Tocdr,  very  rrjuly  to  Hiiltsitlr  out  of  his  nliirrri 
iiixl  iiiinisiiii'SM.  "  Sure  I  tliiiik  yc'vr  irot,  in  u  iimiiiicr, 
tin*  l»il  hrlwcni  lirrl'i'lli  lo  use  u  limine  ol'M|»rr<r|i — and 
yi'  mil  Iniii^  nil  ri^lil. ' 

''It  wouldn't  ]ip|M','i  '  tiiut  slin  JiMM  niiy  (lis|ioMition  lo 
coiiK'  liiirk  into  the  liosoin  of  the  ('liiircli/'  Mni<l  K)itli<;r 
Nii'lioljis  ;  "  mIh'  .S777//.S",  in(l"<'(|,  to  linvi;  Mlir  l»it  l)('tw<M'fi 
her  tnlli.'  " 

"  All !  tlini,  if'H  11  hiicl   tliin;^  luivin;^   any  tliiri;;  to  do 


wi 


til  I 


irr 


(Iced 


iind   I  vvoikIci',  indrcd,  yon  cIkIii  I.  nifiilion  it  to 


lidi 


inyscir,"  sjiid    tin-  old   priest,  addrrssiii'^    r'nllirr    Dcliret) 
f^r.Mvrly,  iiiid  Ivviiliii;^  liis  llinnilis  over  cmcIi  oIIht. 
'J'Ih^  younger  iniiii  was  iiiucli  }i;^it{il('d. 
"  I  liJivni't   (lone  tliiit,  I  (loiifcss,"  said  Ik;  ;  "  \  trir-d  to 
Hpciik  of  it    tin'  oIImt  diiy.      I   linvc.  nj'vcr  iiH't   with   \ut 
r  my 


o 


own  w 


1 1  Id   III  w 


hilt 


I'vcr 


I  I 


\n\i'.  sMK 


I  to  I 


Ml'  my 


conscii'iicc  is  <dr!ir,  liclbn;  (iod,  that,  I  have  s|)ok('ii  as  h(!- 
caiiHi  H  Christian  prirst." 

"  I  hcli<!V(',  ye,  man ;  ami  is  this  it,  then,  ye,  word 
wishin;^  to  8f)(!ak  ahont  that  tiiru!  ?  hut  coiildn't  ye,  writo 
WW,  tlui  way  I  could  (^iv*',  y(i  a  hit  of  advi(',(!  ?      It's  not  fit 


to  <ro  on,  tho  way  it  is,  in 


» 


my  opinion 


-hilt  1 


lovv  won 


Id 


hIic  vouw  to  <'oiit<'ssion,  and  sIk;  not  wishintr  to  ho  ream- 


CI 


led 


•j  >» 


As  I^'athcr  Tcrciu-f!  added  this,  h<;  ijlancfMl  from 


one  of  \hv.  yonn^^'r  pri(sts  to  the  otlu^r.      Father   Delireo 
stood   silent.      l^'alher    Nicholas   answered,    in   a  suhdiu-d 


tone, 


"  I  fear  llie  jrossip  or  the  scandal  of  the;  [dace  mi^lit 
assign  motiv«'>,  the  l(»ast  hai'rnfiil  of  wdTudi  would  h(!  a 
wish  to  assail  the  /ruVA  of  the  fathc^r  confessor;  a  moro 
directly  [)ersonal  and  more  material  motive  miyht  be  in- 
sinuated." 


!1 


I* 


'f 


If 


II 


i 


i.   IT  •n  ■ 

m 


■I;;, 


;   Mi 


I 


3  GO 


THE  NEW   PRIEST. 


'1   i 

1  1        :  ■■ 

j 

i  ri 


M 


"  T  tliink  y'are  not  kind,  some  way,  Father  Nicholas," 
Raid  t]ie  elder. 

Father  Debree's  expression  and  manner  changed  at  the 
remark  from  his  brother  priest,  to  wliich  the  kind-hearted 
old  man  had  just  taken  exception.  AH  hesitation  disap- 
peared at  once,  and  an  indignant  look  took  possession  of 
his  face,  and  he  stood  straight  up  to  confront  the  speaker. 

"  You  have  tampered  with  the  sacred  privacy  of  the 
place,  then  ?  "  he  said.  "  Some  ears  have  been  listening 
for  you — (I  care  not  whose) — where  only  two  mortal 
beings  have  a  riglit  to  hear,  and  if  so,  you  know  well 
tlie  falsehood  of  any  insinuation  tliat  you  may  make 
against  the  character  of  my  involuntary  intercourse  with 
that  person  ;  and  I  have  a  right  to  trust  to  a  reputation 
without  blemish  or  reproach,  and  to  an  honest  open  con- 
versation in  the  world  for  my  defence,  with  those  who 
have  known  me,  or  who  have  hearts  like  Father  Ter- 
ence's, against  any  such  insinuation.'* 

'•  I've  made  no  insinuation,  I  believe  ;  I  have  merely 
suggested  the  suspicions  tliat  might  be  held  in  the  world ; 
and  it  would  seem  from  my  reverend  brother's  intentional 
or  unintentional  admission,  that  there  is  ground,  in  fact, 
for  \'he  suspicion  upon  one  or  other  of  the  points  sug- 
gested." 

Though  this  was  said  in  a  very  gentle  tone,  there  was 
a  subtle  emphasis,  here  and  there,  that  made  one  feel  a 
sharp  edge  through  the  soft  manner. 

"  I  think,  now,  we've  had  enough,"  said  Father  O'Toole. 
"  Ye  say  y'ave  made  no  insinuation  ;  and,  indeed,  I  don't 
know  how  anny  one  would  make  them,  after  hearing  him- 
self; and  sure,  Father  Igiatius,  can't  /:  say  the  same, 
when  y'are  after  hearing   him   read  the  paper  a  while 


ago?" 


THE  THREE  PIJIESTS   TOGETHPZR. 


.101 


"  If  Fatlujr  Nicholas  had  thonrrht  fit  to  make — (what 
I  have  not  asked,  but  what  the  case  appears  to  ask) — as 
full  a  dis(!laimer  as  I  have  made,  myself,  I  should  take  his 
word  for  it ;  but,  iu  the  mean  time,  k/iowing,  as  I  do,  suf- 
fieieiit  evidene(^  to  carry  an  appearance  of  probability 
with  it,  I  must  reserve  my  ()[)iiiion.  I  should  scarcely 
RU])pose  that  the  publication  of  that  pajx-r, — omittinj;  the 
two  or  thn'e  inijiortant  words  that  would  assure  the  reader 
of  the  Dej)onent's  never  haviujr  had  any  control  over  the 
missing,  or  known  of  lier  whereabouts, — would  satisfy  the 
public,  or  her  fi'iends." 

"  To  apjdy  your  rule,"  said  Father  Nicholas,  "  I  might 
e^ay  that  you  seem  to  be  in  the  confuh'tice  of  those  with- 
out; to  have  sat  ^in  ecclcsin  maligudnfinm  ;  '*  but  I  think 
with  the  Very  Reverend  Fatlu>r  O'Toole,  that  we  have 
had  enough  of  this. —  I  »  .1  take  care  of  myself;  I  hope 
you  will  take  care  of  yourself.  At  the  wor.>t,  the  charge 
against  me  involves  only  an  excess  of  zeal  in  behalf  of 
the  one,  only  Church  of  (iod,  and  the  souls  of  men.  I 
am  clear  of  any  "  iputation  upon  my  moral  character  in 
any  other  respect.^ 

"I  hope  so,  indeed,"  said  Father  Terence,  looking  like 
one  who  saw  the  clouds  beginning  to  lift ;  "  but  it's  not 
good  to  have  too  much  zeal,  either;  and  there's  not  a 
ha'p'orth  against  our  brother,  here,  unless,  maybe,  it's  a 
little  thoughtfulness  was  wanting;  and,  sure,  I  wasn't 
always  ihorightful  myself;  and  I  think  none  of  us  was." 

Father  Nicholas  spoke  again  : — 

"  As  for  the  unhappy  jierson  who  has  been  the  subject 
of  a  part  of  our  conversation,  slie  has  thrust  herself  into 
the  way  of  the  advancing  Church  of  God.  The  weight 
is  already  on  h<'r  ;  she  will  be  crushed!  I  hope  no  one 
else  will  be  cau,  lit  in  her  ruin." 

*  In  the  assoniblv  oj  the  malif^natit. 


>-v. 


'i  \    ' 


■;?.. 


'A 


•       I-?.' 


1 


':\ 


w 


I  v,n 


1  § 


'   !'  ':i- 

V. 
■'.■) 

I    f 


1 

1 

H,:   li'  .         -:!« 

\i 

^^^                   {'/}' 

iM 

m  \      1 

|i^  ';    -.i'''^ ''1! 

B  •     ' 

M  li''''''!' 

1  '''' 

^       lii 

Hi  ._■ 

;^  li 

i       % 

■  j ' 

ft! 

1 

^     ^^!i 

}  j 

■•il' 

^   . 

:|l 

if 

i 

■f' 

V 

f 

;  i, 

1 

362 


THE  NEW  PlilEST. 


"  Is  it,  indeed,  a  car  of  Juggernaut  that  we  would  make 
it  ? "  said  Father  Ignatius,  repeating,  perhaps  involun- 
tarily, an  expression  which  had  been  lately  used  to  him- 
self, in  l)itterness  of  heart.  "  I  would  never  be  a  priest, 
if,  in  order  to  it,  I  must  cease  to  be  a  man." 

"  God  forbid ! "  said  the  kind-hearted  old  priest  to 
Father  Nicholas's  dark  auijurv, — not  having  heeded  what 
was  said  afterwards.  "  We  wouldn't  wish  her  any  harm, 
poor  thing !     But  we'll  just  talk  it  over  a  bit,  by-and-by." 

"  Then  I  won't  be  a  hinderance  to  your  counsels,"  said 
Father  Nicholas ;  and,  bowing  gravely  and  formally,  left 
the  room. 

"  And  I'll  tell  you  what  we'll  do,"  said  the  elder,  as  the 
other  went ;  "  have  you  nothing  to  do  with  her,  if  she 
seeks  ye  itself ;  and,  if  she  stays  there,  we'll  get  ye  away, 
after  a  bit ;  it'll  be  best ;  and  I'll  not  ask  ye  to  tf  11  me 
anny  thing  more  about  it." 

As  he  said  this,  he  stroked  down  his  respectable  and 
kindly-looking  locks,  behind,  and  took  his  homely  pipe. 

"  I  would  rather  tell  you  the  whole  thing,"  said  the 
younger  priest ;  and  he  accordingly  gave  an  account  of 
his  first  and  the  other  meetings  with  Mrs.  Barre,  of  which 
the  reader  has  already'  been  informed. 

He  spoke  into  friendly  ears,  and  spoke  without  hiding 
his  strong  feeling,  though  not  without  controlling  it;  and 
Father  Terence,  having  heard  him,  with  sympatliy,  to 
the  end,  said,  much  as  before,  "  Ye  mustn't  be  there,  if 
she  stays  in  it." 


^:^.4 


A   MIRACLE. 


363 


i 


CHAPTER  XL. 


A.    MIRACLE. 


E  left  judicial   matters  at  Bay-Harbor  just 
as   Mr.  Attorney-general    Kay,  having    had 
both  Mr.  Bangs  and  Ladford  at  his  lodgings, 
had  determined  to  issue  a  warrant. 

There  is  always,  m  the  [»ublic  mind  of  a  community 
excited  for  maTiy  days  toirether, — as  that  of  Conception- 
IJay,  and  especially  of  I>ay- Harbor,  had  been, — a  dis- 
position to  expect  sometliing;  and  the  presence  of 
attorney-geflrerai  *nd  sheriff's  deputy  among  them,  just 
at  this  tirae,  (occasioned  a  general  ferment  ,mong  both 
iimnan  Catholii<?s  and  all  others. 

Rumors,  of  course,  were  abundant,  within  a  few  hours 
after  their  laiiKiliiiig.  It  was  said  that  a  large  military  force 
was  to  be  eailed  out,  in  case  of  need  ;  that  the  three  judges 
were  to  a>>4enil)le  in  Bay-Harbor;  that  five  hundred 
special  con-stabU's  had  been  sworn  in  ;  that  the  Govei'uor 
was  coming  down  ;  that  all  the  English  clergy  in  the 
Bay  hau.  publicly  requested  their  flocks  to  resort  to  the 
scene  of  expected  operations;  that  the  Roman  Catliojie 
clergy  had  denounced,  from  the  altar,  the  judges  and  offi- 
cers of  the  law,  and  all  who  might  aid  or  libel  ihelii. 

In  the  mean  time,  however,  tiune  was  no  appearancn 
oi'  extraordinary  activity  in  cither   attoiuey-^uUeml  or 


.•  ti 


•1: 


^dh 


m 


w    > 


'•« 


3G4 


THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


deputy  sheriff;  no  troop»  marched  through  the  streets ;  no 
cxowds  from  abroad  gath(;red ;  and  so  the  day  passed  by 
with  no  more  serious  disturbance  of  the  peace  than  a 
rough  word  or  so,  between  occasional  Peterport  men 
and  others,  and,  before  evening,  tlie  expectation  of  the 
pubhc  had  much  cooled. 

Mr.  Bangs,  returning  in  the  afternoon,  after  several 
days'  absence,  repaired,  Hke  a  dutiful  disciple,  to  the  feet 
of  Father  O'Toole,  for  religious  instruction  ;  slipping  off 
(so  to  speak)  the  attire  of  travel  and  trade,  and  putting  on 
the  garb  of  meek  and  lowly  scholarship.  Some  ripples 
of  the  restless  sea  of  public  opinion  must,  of  course,  make 
their  way  into  this  usually  quiet  retreat,  for  the  v/ind  blew 
this  way  ;  but,  however  it  may  have  been  with  any  other 
inmates.  Father  O'Toole  showed  little  feehng  of  the  dis- 
turbance without.  With  a  peaceful  equanimity,  he  held 
his  place,  and  went  about  his  duty,  as  aforetime.  All  the 
edifying  and  instructive  conversation  that  occupied  that 
afternoon,  we  cannot  repeat ;  we  keep  to  that  which  con- 
cerns and  influenced  our  plot. 

After  tea,  to  which  the  hearty  man  pressed  his  convert, 
the  American  "  wondered  whether  he  couldn't  go  'n 
ex'cise,  a  spell,  'n  th'  chapil ;  "  and,  after  the  explanation 
which  was  necessary  for  the  w^orthy  priest, — who  was  not 
familiar  with  the  plirase, — he  secured  the  key,  and  left 
his  instructor  to  his  evening  pipe. 

It  was  not  long  before  Mr.  Bangs  returned,  without  his 
hat,  in  haste,  and  said  he  "  wanted  jes'  to  ask  a  question 
't  was  on  his  mind.  Father  O'Toole,"  said  he,  "  d'  they 
e.vfr  have  mirycles,  or  what  not,  *n  your  church  ?  " 

"  Whj,  what  d'ye  mean,  then  ?  "  said  Father  O'Toole, 
disturbed  by  the  excited  look  and  manner  of  his  disciple. 
•*  Jhoi";  -  nianny  '^t'  diem  in  it,  but  it's  not  every  one  sees 
them." 


A  MIRACLE. 


365 


"Wall,  Father  O'Toole,  what  d'  they  look  like?" 
asked  Mr.  Bangs. 

"  Oh,  all  sorts  o'  things  they  look  like  !  Sure,  I  couldn't 
mind  the  one  half  o'  them." 

"  Can  pickchers  do  'em  ?  " 

"Indeed,  it's  pictures  does  the  most  o'  them,  by  all 
accounts." 

"  Wall,  I  tell  ye  what, — 'f  you  b'lieve  it, — that  pickcher 
o'  your's  there  ain't  a  faint  attempt !  'T  must  be  one  o' 
the  pre-Adamite  school,  or  a  real  Rayfael,  't  Cap'n 
Stiles's  son  uf.ed  to  talk  about,  b'fore  lie  got  int'  the 
regular  business  o'  painting  carts,  'n'  wagons,  'n'  barns 

b't,  's  I's   sayin' ;    I  guess  ye'll   think  I've  seen  a 

mirycle ! " 

"  Y'are  dreamin',  man,  I  think ! " 

"  I'm  ruther  wide  awake,  mos'  gen'ally ;  but  the'  wus  a 
round,  bright  place  on  the  wall,  b'  that  pickcher,  '?  big 
as ." 

"  'Tv/as  the  moon,  it  was,"  said  the  Frie-^t,  getting  :  lore 
interested. 

"  'Twould  'a'  ben  a  mirycle,  any  way ;  for  the  moon 
ain't  up ;  an'  'nother,  too,  'f  ye  c'd  see  it  through  he 
wall." 

"  It  must  have  been  a  i-eflection  of  it,  some  wa^  ye 
know  there's  eclipses  and  changes ;  an'  some  o'  them  'a 
very  quare,  too,  an'  only  come  round  once  in  a  while."' 

"  I'm  aware  o'  that,  Father  O'Toole,"  said  the  \  tieri- 
ean  ;  "  b't  I  wish  ye'd  jes'  step  over,  'f  'taint  t(  .  much 
trouble,  'n'  take  a  look  at  it ; — I  come  right  off. " 

Father  O'Toole  complii^l,  and  the  two  went. 

"  I  ruther  laughed  at  winkin'  pickchers,  one  spell,"  said 
the  disciple,  by  the  way  ;  "  but  't  '11  be  a  startliu'  sound 
't  the  Day  'Judgment  t'  hear  a  pickcher  singin'  out  I  ook 
a'  here!  I  winked  at  ye,  but  ye  wouldn't  repent.'" 


" ''.''  il 


if  s    H  p 


'  ''IB^^^B  * 

•  s'i'fH/Ki 

mm 

I'i 

i: 

• 

f 

D  :  b  ff HB 

Pii 


;n. 


1  I'l- 


I 


I   '1' 


366 


THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


Out  of  doors  that  night  the  stars  and  their  surrounding 
darkness  had  the  wliole  heavens  to  themselves, — no  moon 
was  there.  So  clear,  however,  was  the  air,  that  the  night 
was  not  dark  ;  and  it  was  cool  enough,  with  the  fresh 
breath  of  the  sea,  to  make  a  good  draught  of  it  a  comfort. 
The  dogs  seemed  to  enjoy  it,  and  kej)t  it  in  continual  stir 
with  theix  antiphonal  barking  ;  throwing  all  through  it  a 
melody  as  musical  as  that  of  some  of  the  best  Italian 
boatmen,  who  breathe  their  lungs  as  stoutly  as  they  stretch 
their  brawny  arms,  deforming  Tasso's  stately  rhymes  with 
their  coarse  speech,  and  making  the  deformity  all  filthy 
with  foul  garlic.  The  worst  point  in  the  vocal  efforts  of 
our  dogs  is  their  remitting,  but  unwearied  and  unending 
noisiness. 

The  occasional  clink  or  thump  of  something  on  board 
a  vessel,  or  the  steady  plying  of  some  patient  oars,  falls 
pleasantly  on  the  ear  in  this  calm  night. 

Father  Terence  and  his  companion  made  their  way 
hastily  through  the  dusk  over  the  short  distance  that  sep- 
arated them  from  the  chapel. 

"  Here's  where  I  was,"  said  Mr.  Bangs,  in  a  reveren- 
tial and  agitated  whisper,  groping  in  the  darkness  of  the 
place.  "  Shouldn't  want  t'  go  'ny  niglier  ; "  and  he  went 
down  dump  iipon  his  knees.  "  Wunt  you  jes'  take  hold 
an'  lift  up.  Father  O'Toole  ?  " 

"  An'  what's  it  y'are  afther,  then  ?  "  asked  the  Priest. 

"  Why,  'f  'taint  to'  much  trouble,  Father  O'Toole," 
whispered  Mr.  Bang^.  in  an  agitated  \  oice,  "  t'  take  f 'r 
a  man,  (an'  'n  American,  't's  jest  steppin'  on  t'  the  Cath- 
olic platform,)  wunt  you  jest  jine  'n  prayer, — 'n  Lat'n  or 
Greek,  or  what  not,  'f  ye  want  to,  c'nsiderin'  ye're  a 
priest, — 'can't  do  'ny  harm  to  i)ray,  certin' ; — 've  got  a 
bundle  here,  '11  be  k'nd  o'  soft  f '  yer  knees ;  'n  'f  you'll 


) 


.;,li 


A  MIRACLE. 


3c: 


kip  a  liftin'  up  pray'rs  V  supplications  fo'  me,  (Elnathan 
Bungs,  ye  know,)  I'll  be  a  kneelin'  a  little  ways  ofi'  f 'm 
ye,  I'k'  the  publican." 

"  Indeed^  an'  there's  no  harm  'n  a  few  prayers,  as  ye 
were  sayin',  Mr.  Bangs ;  an'  it's  the  Catliolics  are  the 
great  prayers,"  said  Father  O'Toole,  whose  preparations 
for  going  down  upon  his  knees,  as  well  as  could  be  judged 
by  the  ear,  in  tlie  dark,  were  as  deliberate  and  on  as  large 
a  scale  as  those  of  a  horse. 

"'F  ye  wunt  think  hard  o'  me  f  mentionin'  it,  'don't 
b'lieve  't  '11  be  a  prayer,  or  two,  't  '11  do.  'T  must  be  a 
c'ntinuin'  on,  luk  Moses  on  Mount  Hur,  'en  Aaron  took 
'n'   boosted  'm  up,"   urged   the  convert,   in    a   whisper, 


agam. 


Before  the  Priest  had  addressed  himself  fairly  to  his 
work,  but,  as  it  seemed,  after  he  had  got  o  a  lower  pos- 
ture, he  snuffed  tlie  air  and  said  : — 

"  Mr.  Bangs,  had  ye  the  incense-boat,  when  ye  wor  in 
it?  or  what's  this  w\arrm  smell  I  feel,  like  something 
hatin',  I'd  like  to  know." 

"  Wall,  that's  curi's ;  I  haven't  had  'ny  boat  'r  ship, 
'thout  it's  wo'ship.  Sometliin'  lieatin',  ye  say  ?  It's  's  dark 
's  Egypt;  'n'  I've  heard  Muther  Byles  Slack,  'n  'e  's 
d'liv'rin'  a  Fourth  o'  July  oration,  talk  'bout  '  simmerin'  * 
darkness  ; '  b't  'never  thought  'sh'd  live  t'  see  it,"  said 
Mr.  Bangs.     "  Le's  pray  1 " 

Intense  silence  followed,  and  darkness  most  intense 
continued.  The  great  crowd  of  a  Sunday  or  a  high  fes- 
tival, with  smoking  incense  and  pealing  song,  could  not 
be  more  impressive.  A  dr/cp,  steady  breathing,  growing 
plower,  and  deeper,  and  steadier,  began  to  be  heard  from 
Fatlier  Terence. 

*  Ciinincrhm? 


,ii. 


368 


THE  NFW   I'RIEST. 


ift^.: 


(» 


Pi'esently  a  laiul  crash  stavtUH\  tlu'  m-iest,  and  he  ex- 
olai'mt'd : — 

"  Mr.  Ban<rs  !  W\m's  this  ?  " 

"  'Mirycle's  c'liimenoin',  liKo\) ,"  answi^ed  the  Ameri- 
can, in  an  excited  wliispe v  \  ''^  Hp^etU'd  a  voice  a  spell  ago 
callin'  me  by  name,  as  plain  's  I  hear  you  ;  't  seemed  t' 
be  a  voice  o'  c'nsid'blv  power,  but  ruther  softened,  sayin' 
'Mister  Bangs!'" 

"  That's  liko  the  Praste,  Haly,*  in  the  temple  !  In- 
deed, it's  a  wonder  but  it  '11  say  more  t'ye.  Ave  Maria  I 
gratiae  plena."  f 

"  Hjj^Vv  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Bangs;  "  'T  couldn't  'a'  ben  one 

W  CD       ^ 

o'  thv  Haley s  down  t'  Salem,  'twas  a  priest.  Oh !  'n  the 
Tii^iple  o'  Solomon,  ye  say.  Father  O'Toole  ? — Wall — ." 

At  this  moment  something  happened  which  restored 
the  intense  silence  that  had  been  broken,  and  made  even 
the  American  a  party  to  it.  A  light  burst  through  or 
upon  the  wall,  (or  so  it  seemed,)  on  which  the  picture 
hi  s^g.  Father  O'Toole  breathed  hard,  and  then  all  was 
breathless.  The  light  grew  fixed  and  strong — a  circle 
like  a  great  halo.  The  light  was  darkened  by  an  advan- 
cing figure, — it  seemed  of  some  animal.  It  took  definite 
shape  and  was  still,  then  suddenly  disappeared. 

"  Why,  'e's  got  hold  o*  th'  wrong  one  ! "  exclaimed  Mr. 
Bangs,  in  his  whisper. 

"  Mater  misericordise ! "  t  cried  the  Priest.  "  What's 
this,  at  all !  Oh,  Holy  Virgin  !  'Twas  one  o'  the  souls 
in  Purrgat'ry  I  seen,  in  a  figyer ! " 

"  Why,  ye  don't  say  !  "  answered  the  convert. 

"  'Twas,  thin  !  It's  what  we  may  all  come  to.  'Twas 
a  rat  I  seen  ;  its  the  way  they  look." 


*  Heli,  as  the  name  reads  in  the  Vulgate  and  Douay. 

t  Hail,  Mary,  full  of  grace!  \  Mother  of  Mercy! 


ll«i; 


A  MIRACLK. 


309 


"  Ye  saw  a  rat !  Wall,  I've  heard  o'  smellin'  a  rat ; 
I'm  glad  'twa'n't  Tensive  t'  yor  oU'act'ries,  'm  sure." 

"  How  d'ye  be  able  lo  talk  that  way,  aii'  you  seeiu' 
what  yc  seen  !  "  said  the  priest,  sternly. 

At  this  point,  again,  all  conversation  was  interrupted 
by  what  followed  in  the  lighted  circle. 

Again  the  light  was  dimmed  by  an  advancing  figure  ; 
this  time,  of  a  lady ;  and  as  it  stood  still  and  became 
more  distinct,  Father  Terence  exclaimed,  in  a  tone  of 
the  strongest  feeling — 

"It's  Herself  's  in  it!  Oh!  Virgo  Excellcns  !  Virgo 
Praiclara ! "  * 

"  'N  Purgytory  ?  'Thought  yer  reg'lar  saints  didn't 
go  into  it,"  said  Mr.  Bangs,  in  spite  of  the  excitement 
and  terror  that  appeared  in  his  voice,  yet  finding  exercise 
for  his  tongue.  "  'Guess  that  ain't  Purgytory,  Father 
O'Toole." 

"  She's  often  in  it,  then — (Ave  Maria  I  Turris  Ebur- 
nea  !  Turris  David  !  Virgo  Virginum  !  t)  -every  Satur- 
day,$  (Refugium  Peccatorum  !  §)  an'  other  times,  to  take 
out  souls," 

The  figure,  though  not  perfectly  distinct,  certainly  did 
seem  to  wear  the  dress  and  had  the  air  of  the  Vii  gin  in 
the  picture.  Another  figure  began  to  show  itself,  and 
was  watched,  doubtless,  with  fearful  intentness ;  the  silence 
was  as  perfect  as  before.     It  was  a  kneeling  man. 

"  It's  a  praste ! "  said  Father  O'Toole,  in  a  low  voice  ; 
and  both  were  silent. 

"  W  't  looks  ainazin'  like ." 

*  Virgin  exce'lent!     Virgin  most  noble! 

t  Hail  Mary!    Ivory  Tower !    Tower  of  David!    Virj^in  of  Virgins! 

X  This  is  affirmed  by  more  luau  one  pope,  upon  the  authority  of 

special  revelations. 

§  Kefuge  of  Sinners! 

24 


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THE  NKVV   PRIl'ST. 


"  Don't  say  it,  then  !  "  interrupted  Father  Terence, 
with  the  most  excited  earnestness.  "  Oil  I  vvliatever  '11 
I  do,  at  all!  To  be  honored  this  a  way!  An'  her  witli 
a  crown  in  her  hand  ! " 

*'  W  I  couldn't  stand  it  'f  'twus  me ;  *sh'd  go  right  oil', 
in  a  minit,"  said  Mr.  Bang.^. 

Another  figure  of  a  m;ui  slowly  appeared  ;  the  figure 
of  the  priest  receded.  The  new  shape  came  forward, 
slowly,  and  as  it  grew  entinj  tmd  clear,  showed  itself  to 
be  sitting  in  an  easy  attitu<le,  with  a  (comparatively) 
modern  hat  in  its  lap.  It  stop[)e(l.  The  head  received 
the  crown  which  had  been  waiting  in  the  Virgin's  hand. 

*''t  jest  fits  him!"  said  the  admiring  Mr.  Bangs, 
"  looks  handsome  in  it,  too !  Ruther  proni'n'nt  chap, 
sh'd  judge." 

"  It's  ye'rself,  that  is,  anny  way,"  said  the  Priest ;  "  an' 
the  crown  manes  that  meself  's  the  instrument  o'  savin' 
yer  soul !  Ah  !  if  Father  Nicholas  was  in  it !  and  the 
rest  o'  them !  D'ye  see  it's  ye'rself,  Mr.  Bangs  ? — Indade, 
I'm  thinkin'  the  man  's  killed!"  The  last  words  were 
added  as  he  got  no  answer. 

"  'Tain't  poss — wh'  look  a'  here  !  Wall,  I  never !  "  cried 
the  American  in  confused  alarm,  after  a  pause  in  which 
he  seemed  wrestling  with  his  feelings. 

The  apparition  disappeared  ;  and  all  was  dark ;  and  in 
that  quarter,  and  in  others,  a  noise  was  heard,  though  not 
a  crash,  like  that  which  had  preceded  the  miraculous  ex- 
hibition. 

There  seemed  a  visionary  or  spectral  flight  along  the 
floor.  There  was  a  rattling  and  clinking,  as  in  otlicr 
apparitions  (it  may  have  been  a  sound  of  chains)  ;  and, 
as  in  other  apparitions,  the  door  of  the  chapel  opened 
violently,  and  shut  with  the  same  violence,  twice ; — and 
all  was  still  within. 


A    MIRACLE. 


;J7I 


The  spectral  lli<^lit  was  coiitiimcd  on  tlie  out-'ide  of  llm 
ch.'ipc'l,  and  even  two  Ppectral  figures  might  liave  been 
seen  crossing  the  o[»('n  ground. 

''  Look  a'  liere  !  Mv.  Frank,"  said  one  of  tlieni  to  the 
other.  ''IIow,  under  the  canopy,  d'd  you  git  that  glass, 
'til  th'  I'at  on  it,  in?  Didn't  know  'twas  there.  Wall, 
hold  on,  now  !  Must  let  the  folks  all  know  'hout  the 
niirycle,  'n'  send  'em  over."  "With  these  words  the 
spectral  figuni  went  up  to  the  door  of  the  nunnery,  and 
began  to  knock,  earnestly.  The  moon  was  now  near  to 
rising  ;  and  a  silver  largess  was  scattered  before  its  car. 

"  'T's  Mr.  Bangs  't  Fathcn'  Terence  's  ben  convertin', 
Miss  Jerushy — I  mean  sister  Theresy, — (I'm  all  of  a 
heap,)  mii-yde,  over  here, 't  ehapil!  niirycle!  mirycle ! " 
(a  shriek  caiiK;  from  within,  followed  by  another,  and  then 
another.)  "Father  O'Toole  wants  every  b'dy  over;  'd 
have  sent  a  lady,  'f  the'd  ben  one.  Right  over  here,  't 
the  cha[)il !     "Wants  ye  all  f '  witnesses  !  " 

Presently  there  was  another  hurtling  in  the  air;  and 
spectral  flight  of  many  figures  darker  than  night  in  which 
they  moved,  towards  the  miracle-holding  chapel.  The 
nuns  left  their  own  quarters  to  loneliness  and  silence. 


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THE  NEW   PlilEST. 


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CHAPTER  XLl. 


THE    EXAMINATION    IN    FATHER    O'tOOLE's    LIBRARY. 


St  J '" 


(Ol^  N  the  twilight  of  that  evening,  as  the  town,  (except 
for  the  sounds  that  we  have  mentioned,)  lay  still,  a 
man  had  been  going  round,  outside  the  Mission 
grounds;  here  in  a  thoroughfare,  there  over  rough 
ground,  stopping  a  moment,  here  and  there,  with  men 
who  came  to  him  out  of  darkness,  and  went  back  to  it 
again.  He  walked  fast  along  the  whole  front  and  a  little 
beyond  ;  across  the  street,  and  a  like  distance  there,  and  a 
little  way  down  two  cross  streets. 

"  Here's  a  pretty  go ! "  exclaimed  he,  as  he  got  back 
and  stationed  himself,  restlessly,  near  the  middle  of  the 
front,  after  examining  his  neighborhood  pretty  carefully. 
"  There  he  is,  I  believe ;  he'd  be  a  pretty  sentry, 
wouldn't  he  ?  "  he  ended,  going  toward  a  man  who  was 
approaching  from  the  end  of  a  cross-street,  a  little  way 
up. 

"  Ain't  you  a  jolly  fellow  ? "  he  asked,  in  a  cautious 
way  but  very  plainly,  "  if  they  had  you  in  the  army, 
they'd  make  nothing  o'  shooting  you,  just  as  you'd  shoot 
a  seal.  "  What  did  you  go  away  for  ?  and  where's 
Isaac  ?  " 

At  this  address  the  other  stood  aghast  and  made  no 
answer,  scratching  the  side  of  liis  fur  cap. 


EXAMINATION. 


373 


**  Where  have  you  been  now  ?  To  see  if  the  boat's 
safe  ?  "  renewed  his  examiner. 

"  Why,  Isaac's  gone  after  'era  and  I  sid  'em,  Skipper 
Ch " 

"  Whist,  now  !  you  can't  remember  a  thing,  Jesse. 
Have  you  got  my  handkerchief?" 

"  No,  I  never  makes  use  of  one,  Mister  Gal ." 

"  There  you  go,  again  ;  don't  call  me  names  ;  but  why 
can't  you  remember  the  watchword,  like  all  the  rest  ?  " 

"  So  I  does,  '  Have  you  got  my  handkerchief? '  Oh  ! 
I  sis, — "   said  the   speaker,  catching   himself  up,  "you 

wants  I  to  give  the  answer :  '  Tom  Jones  ' " 

~  "  That'll  do ;  if  ever  they  tells  you  they'll  give  you 
your  life,  if  you'll  tell  'em  your  name  before  they  can  say 
Jack  Robinson,  you'll  say,  Abraham,  Isaac,  and  Jacob, 
but  I'm  mistaken  if  you  think  of  Jesse.  Well  what  did 
you  see,  then  ?     The  ark  of  bulrushes  ?  " 

"  Wull,"  said  Jesse,  vindicating  himself,  "  ef  I  can't 
talk,  I  can  do  my  work ;  I  suppose  I've  sid  all  that's  abin 
sid.  However,  I  sid  'em,  all  go  through  this  way,  and 
had  somebody  along  wi  'em." 

"  Come,  then,  Jesse,  where  did  they  come  from  ? 
Through  that  gate  ?  " 

"  Is,  an'  some  soart  of  a  carriage  wi'era." 

"  Good !  That  is  to  the  point :  men  ? "  inquired 
Skipper  Charlie. 

"  Both." 

"  How  long  ago  ?  " 

*'  A  matter  of  ten  minutes,  raubbe,  it  was ;  but  I 
can't  say  how  many " 

"  And  nobody's  come  back  ?  " 

«  No." 

During   this   colloquy,   the   Peterport    constable    bad 


*i\ 


374 


THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


if 


»•«?: 


WAV. 


m '■**■■    - 


'U 


m 


never  ceased  directing  quick  looks  towards  the  cross- 
street  before  referred  to,  (if  it  may  be  called  a  street,) 
and  just  about  this  point,  he  thrust  Jesse  suddenly  down, 
in  a  heap,  upon  the  ground,  pulled  down  his  own  hat  and 
giving  a  limp  to  his  right  leg,  began  to  walk  slowly 
across  the  highway. 

With  a  sound  of  his  footsteps  going  before  him,  a  man 
soon  emerged  from  shadow,  who  coming  far  enough  out 
of  his  way  to  look  upon  our  limping  friend,  showed  him- 
self, at  the  same  time,  to  be  Father  Nicholas,  and  then 
passed  through  the  gateway.  By  and  by  came  along  two 
dark  female  figures,  like  nuns,  and  followed  the  same 
course,  except  that  they  did  not  diverge  in  the  direction 
of  the  constable.  ' 

Shortly  after,  a  body  of  men  silently  and  swiftly  came 
along  the  street ;  and  Gilpin,  saying  "  Here's  the  Deputy- 
sheriff  and  his  men  !  stay  here,  Jesse ;  I'll  be  back  in  a 
giffey ! "  ran  down  towards  the  water. 

The  sheriff's  party  came  straight  up  to  the  fence  in- 
closing the  Mission-premises ;  and  there  halted  for  some 
minutes. 

The  delay  enabled  the  Peterport  constable  to  accom- 
plish his  errand  ;  and  he  got  back  again,  just  as  the  last 
of  them  was  going  through  the  gate.  He  was  about  to 
follow  when  information  from  Jesse  that  "  he  heard  Mr. 
Banks's  voice  over  'tother  w'y,  and  a  great  noise,"  led 
him  in  that  direction. 

Sounds  from  the  chapel,  as  of  attempts  at  the  door, 
and  confused  voices,  grew  louder  and  were  multiplied,  and 
as  they  rose,  the  voice  of  the  American  began  to  be  heard 
again,  within  the  nun's  building,  and  a  loud  female  cry, 
itiso.  Mr.  Bangs  was  addressing,  apparently,  some  one 
"with  whom  he  was  walking. 


f:xaminatiox. 


to 


"  That's  somcbMy  carry'n'  on  'bout  the  mirycle,  likely. 
Sht)uldn't  wonder  'f  she'd  ben  left  behind,  'n'  got  acoi- 
dent'ly  loeked  up.  She'll  keep,  I  ruther  guess.  'T's  over 
t'  th'  chureh,  he  wants  you,  Holy  Father." 

"  What  do  you  mean  l>y  a  miraele  ?  "  impatiently  asked 
a  voice  which  any  person,  who  knew  it,  might  at  once 
have  recognized  as  that  of  Father  Nicholas. 

"  Wall,  'taint  f '  me  t*  say ;  sh'd  judge  't  'd  be  more 
accord'n'  t*  th'  laws  o'  science  fo*  you  t'  tell  me.  I'm  on'y 
jest  learnin' ! — The  ladies,  here,  'v'  all  gone  over  t* 
see  it." 

"Absurdity!"  exclaimed  the  priest;  but  the  intelli- 
gence seemed  to  have  quickened  his  motions,  and  saying 
"I  must  put  a  stop  to  this,"  he  came  forth  into  the  air, 
leaving  the  shouting  female  to  console  herself. 

"  In  the  King's  name !  You're  my  prisoner,  Father 
Nicholas  Crampton ;  r(;scue  or  no  rescue ! "  said  one  of 
several  men  who  met  hiiu  as  he  came  out. 

"  We'll  see  about  that,  my  friend,"  said  Father  Nicholas, 
with  his  usual  self-possession,  "  You'll  have  the  kindness 
to  take  me  to  the  nearest  magistrate,  or,  you'll  have 
trouble." 

"  Wall !  That  ain't  slow,  fact ! "  exclaimed  Mr.  Bangs, 
« "W"'  where  on  earth  d'd  you  come  from,  Mr.  Gal[)in  ? 
Y'  ain't  a  goin'  t'  take  a  holy  priest  pris'ner  ?  Jest  leave 
him  'th  one  o'  yer  men,  there,  will  ye,  a  mirit?'  Want 
t'  speak  'th  ye." 

"  Confine  yourself  to  your  own  affairs,  if  you  please," 
said  Father  Nicholas.  "  I  want  no  interference  with 
mine." 

"Wall,  'f  ye're  p'tic'lar  'bout  it,  I  will,"  said  INIr. 
Bangs.  "  Look,  a'here,  Skipper, —  's  the'  call  it,"— con- 
tinued he,  as  the  constable  drew  as^ide  with  him,  "  'twunt 


11.'.' 1 '  i,i 


ffir. 


liii 


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37C 


THE  NEW   rUlEST. 


be  ncVry,  I  guess,  f '  you  to  go  a  searcliin'  th'  buildin'. 
I've  jest  bon  all  tbrongb  it,  fr'in  top  to  toe.  Tbat  ain't 
Lucy  Harbury,  't's  sinj^in'  out ;  t bat's  a  k'ud  'f  a  hune 
pal,  tiie'  got  tberc, — f 'r  belp,  liively, — Miad  t'  -ak(;  'ii'  lo('I<: 
ber  up,  t'  gi'  me  a  ebanee.  Tbe'  ain't  'ny  sign  o'  JMis.s 
Barb'ry  'n  tb'  wliole  |)Iac(\" 

Tbe  Ameriean'rt  extra  official  searcb  was  not  quite 
Ratisf'aetory  to  tbe  Sberitr,  wbo  ilin'cted  tbat  be  sbould  be 
taken  into  custody  ;  and  tben,  leaving  tbe  Head  Constable 
to  secure  Fatber  Terence  and  tbe  nuns,  took  Fatber 
Nicbolas  and  Sister  Tberesa  to  tbe  presence  of  tbe  Judge, 
wbo,  witb  some  of  tbe  district  magistrates,  bad  occupied 
Fatber  Terence's  library. 

"Wbere's  tbe  Triest?"  asked  Gilpin. 

"  He's  p'ticl'ly  engaged,"  said  Mr.  Bangs,  wbo  bad  not 
lost  bis  tongue ;  "  but  you  don't  want  bim.  He  never  'd 
hurt  anybody." 

"  He's  wanted  for  witness,"  said  tbe  constable ;  ''  and 
you  too,  Mr.  Banks." 

"  Wall,  I  know  more  'bout  it  'n  he  does  ;  'n'  that  ain't 
much.  'F  the's  anybody  't  wouldn't  do  'ny  hurt  to  a  flea 
't's  Fatber  O'Toole." 

They  drew  near  to  the  Chapel ;  and  the  stout  voice  of 
Father  Terence  was  heard,  uplifted,  behind  tbe  door  : — 

"  Will  no  one  open  it,  then  ?  I  fear  we'll  never  re- 
cover him  :  it  was  just  fit  to  die  with  the  fright,  he  was  ! " 

The  nuns  huddled  and  cackled  about  the  fastened 
door  ;  but  there  was  not  a  hand  among  them  that  could 
find  the  key  to  turn  it. 

"  Wh'  how's  this,  ladies  ?  Couldn't  ye  git  in  ?  "  asked 
the  American  convert,  as  he  drew  near. 

"  And  is  that  yerself,  Mr.  Bangs  ? "  inquired  the  im- 
prisoned priest. 


n' ' 


EXAMINATION. 


377 


«  Wall,  Vs  what  iisft  to  bo,  I  b'lievn.  Father  OToole." 

"  An'  how  d'ye  be  on  the  outsitlo,  an'  the  door  Icc-kcd 
between  ?  " 

"  'J'hat  IS  a  (juestion,  fact. — They'  got  me  under  arrest," 
he  added,  turning  from  Past  to  Prescait. 

It  may  be  supposed  that  what  had  already  happened, 
not  far  otf,  including  the  arr(^st  of  Father  Nicholas,  had 
not  been  unobserved  by  the  nuns  ;  but  between  the  mira- 
cle, and  Father  O'Toole  imprisoned,  on  the  one  side,  and 
the  alarming  doings  on  the  other,  they  had  quite  lost  con- 
trol of  thenjselves.  At  the  word  "arrest,"  tlujy  all  turned 
about  with  a  new  alarm,  and  fled  again,  (velut  examen,) 
swarming  over,  to  tiuur  hive. 

Father  O'Toole  was  released  immediately,  by  the  con- 
stable, and  was  a  good  deal  bewildered,  as  he  reached  the 
open  air. 

Gilpin  did  his  part  respectfully,  making  his  bow. 

"  I'm  to  ask  you  if  you'll  please  come  with  me,  sir,"  he 
said.  "  It's  only  a  bit  of  evidence  is  wa.iting ;  and  will 
you  be  good  enough  to  ask  all  of  those  ladies  to  go 
along?" 

Father  Terence  submitted,  resignedly,  to  circumstances ; 
and,  having  had  the  g<;neral  state  of  things  explained  to 
him,  secured  the  attendance  of  the  nuns,  and  then,  him- 
self, accompanied  the  constable.  Froyne  clapped  his 
hand  with  peculiar  constabular  unction  and  pretty  heavy 
emphasis,  on  the  "  convert's "  shoulder.  Mr.  Bangs 
rather  led  the  constable  than  was  led  by  him,  as  was 
intended. 

The  party  went  silently ;  but  there  were  buzzings  of 
gathering  throngs  of  men,  in  different  quarters,  indicating 
that  what  had  been  done  ht.d  not  been  done  without  being 
observed.    Knots  of  men,  alsO;  were  gathered  in  the  street 


m 


37J^ 


TIIK   NKW   IMIIKST. 


t 


\H 


'mi 


in  front  ofllu*  Mission  ;  but  non<*  were  pcnnillcjl  to  (Mifor; 
nn«l  no  distnrhMni'c  was  MttcnipttMl. 

Tlio  .lii<l!j;('  mill  liis  assrssors  nicl  i\\r  piisontMN  :in«l 
M'iMu'ssos  sliuwliu^;  mihI  (li(>  (ornicr  cxplaiiiiMl  to  FjitlMT 
Toivn<'«»  that  lie  liad  not  intciKicil  to  take  violent  posscs- 
HJon  of  his  lionsc  ;  hut,  if  Iw  liatl  pn-nrssion,  tlion<j;lit  it 
well  to  <'on(lnrt  as  privately  as  possible,  an  "xannnation 
wliieli  lu»  was  abont  to  make,  antl  wliieli  involved  nnuu' 
or  all  of  tin'  ocenpants  of  the  premises. 

Father  Terenee  thanked  him  for  his  eonsideration,  and 
bej;<j:ed  him  to  do  as  he  pleased  ;  bnt  said  that  he  "wits 
astonished  at  what  was  «roin<;  on,  anny  way." 

The  .Tud^e  and  majjist rates  seated  tln'mselvcs,  and  the 
jnd^e.  havi'«jMr  called  tor  the  pap(»rs,  laid  them  open  on 
the  table  befon^  him,  and  ran  over  one  of  tlH>m  with  his 
eye.     The  Aftorney-ij;(MU'ral  stood  by,  in  reailiness. 

The  SherilT  havin<5  been  directed  to  have  the  {jrisoners 
in  the  opposite  room  nntil  called  for,  removed  all  but 
Father  Terence,  who  was  first  examintMl.  It  was  clear 
from  v^":  good  pri(>st's  answers  to  :i  very  few  courteous 
questions  of  the  Altorney-ujcMieral,  that  he  knew  nothing 
that  would  throw  any  light,  whatever,  on  the  disappear- 
ance or  fate  of  Lucy  Harbury.  lie  was  at  once  dis- 
charged; but  by  invitation  of  the  judge,  remained  in  the 
room.     Attorney-general  Kay  waited  till  he  was  seated. 

After  a  short  questioning  of  Father  Debrce,  the  Judge 
said  that  he  had  seen  no  reason  before,  and  saw  none 
now,  for  8Uj)posing  that  he  knew  any  thing  of  the  case; 
and  he  was  «lischarged.     The  Attorney-general  bowed. 

Mr.  Bangs  being  svnnmoned  and  questioned,  gave,  in  a 
characteristic  way,  and,  at  first,  with  a  redundancy  which 
the  Judge  found  it  necessary  to  rej^ress,  an  account  of  his 
seeing  the  man  and  the  women  carrying,  as  it  ap[)eared, 


m 


I'X  AM  I  NATION. 


37'J 


Runc  pi^rsoii  frnm  Mr.  Ursfon's  lioiinr  <l«)wn  tin*  ••lifT;  nud 
oC  Ills  jifitT  «'X|M'ri«'iH'««  in  llir  inm;i"r)'.  TIh"  f^ravily  of 
\\\v  \\M\]X\>*\\'i{\o>*,  and  even  of  IIm'  Jm<I;.';(',  whs  n(»  armor  of 
pioof  ajiainst  some  of  his  answers.  His  cvidcnr*' occu- 
pied loo  nuicli  spac««  (o  Ik*  inscrlcd  llcr^^  The  snhslani'O 
of  it  \h  ah'cady  i<no\vn. 

SImIjm'  Thrrcsji  wiw  next  rali«'d.  From  hor  it  appeared, 
"the  nuns  often  had  slianj;ers  >(ayin;ij  with  th(!m  (women) ; 
that  a  ^irl,  said  to  he  ont  of  her  mind,  had  htten  hrou^^ht 
to  tlie  house  ahoiit  eh>ven  o'clock  at  ni^hl,  on  (lie  lil- 
te«'nlh  :  hy  Father  Ni<'holjis*M  direction,  only  SistcM*  Fran- 
ces, the  inlirmarian,  and  Sister  A;^nes,  evr  huw  her. 
She  waM  jrone  on  the  twentieth.  These  nnns  were  away. 
AVilness  did  not  know  where  tiiey  were,  nor  whether  tlu^y 
were  to  come  hack,  or  not." 

Th(^  witness  had  not  heard  whetluT  t]w.  sick  girl  was  of 
anotJK'r  faith  ;  an«l  supposed  she  mij^ht,  perhaps,  liave  heeu 
8uch.  UiHlerstood  that  on  lh(^  ni«:;ht  of  llu^  nineteenth  she, 
escaped,  and  the  witness  had  wot  heard  of  her  l)ein»]r  !•(•- 
covmmhmI  ;  hnt  had  Imm-u  told  hy  I^\'ilher  Ni('hoIas  that  she 
could  not  be  found,  'i'o  a  plain  question  whetluM'  she 
had  ever  in  her  min«l  thought  that  that  *;irl  was  the  one 
who  was  inissin^j;  frotn  I'eterport,  the  Sist<'r,  very  mucli 
airecfiMl,  answered  "  Yes." — 'I'o  farther  qu(vstions,  she  said 
that  she  did  in>t  exactly  know  why  she  had  thought  so; 
certain  coincidences  of  titin^  and  ai;e,  and  tlu?  mystery 
that  was  kept  about  it,  hi'd  probably  su^p;e<ted  the  thouj»ht ; 
that  she  thought  the  f^irl  niijrht  have  been  called  by 
another  name  than  that  she  commoidy  bore,  or  had 
previously  borne. 

There  was  an  apparent  simplicity  and  ingenuousness 
about  the  witness  that  would  have  satisfied  any  mind  that 
what  she  said  was  all  she  knew.     She  was  dismissed, 


'Mm 


OUV. 


TIIK  NKW  PRIEST. 


with  n  roqiicst  to  hold  luTsclf  ready,  for  an  hour,  to  ho 
rccMllcd,  if  tiicp'  should  hv  occasion. 

'I'iic  cNaininalioM  of  (he  oth<'r  Minis  was  very  hriof. 
As  tiir  as  they  had  any  information,  their  answers  (;xa(;lly 
nj^reed  with  Sister  Theresa's  testimony,  and  tiiey  were 
absolutely  discharj^ed. 

Ilavin;^  ascertained  that  th<^  Urstons  liad  not  arrived, 
the  Crown  procotided  to  examiin;  Father  Nicholas;  prc- 
faein«:f  ids  questions,  as  in  tlu^  case  of  Sist«'r  Theresa,  with 
an  expression  of  rejijret  f()r  the  occasion.  TIh^  Priest  was 
not  put  upon  oath;  and  it  was  (>xplained  to  iiim  that  'Mie 
need  not  brinj^  liimself  into  danjier  hy  answering;  and 
thougii  a  prisoner  iiad  no  rtff/tf,  to  counsel,  he  would  have 
the  privile;j^e,  if  he  desired  it." 

Father  Nicholas  looked  as  self-possessed  and  de- 
termined as  always,  and  bcfrfxed  the  .judj];e  to  explain 
to  him  the  nati're  of  the  dan^^er  that  he  might  incur, 
and  to  let  him  know,  exactly,  the  ohjtict  of  the  examina- 
tion. 

The  Judge  explained  that  the  object  was  to  ascertain 
whether  he  wjis  in  any  way  privy  to  the  disappearance 
of  a  young  person,  one  Lucy  Barbury ;  and  the  danger 
that  he  might  put  himself  in  was  that  of  furnishing  evi- 
dence against  himself. 

"What  if  I  d«'cline  submitting  to  anv  questioning?" 

"  I  shall  at  once  commit  you  to  jail." 

"  And  if  I  should  bid  you  do  it  and  welcome  ?  " 

"  Of  the  propriety  of  my  course  I  shall,  in  any  event, 
judge  for  myself;  and  therefore  it  would  be  quite  un- 
necessary on  your  part." 

Father*  Nicholas  bit  his  lip ;  but  answered  that  he  was 
satisfied,  and  ready  to  be  questioned.  He  would  not  ask 
for  any  counsel. 


!!l 


KX  AM  I  NATION. 


nsi 


examinii- 


All  questions  as  (o  liis  own  wlM-roabonts,  on  the  fif- 
tiM-ntli  of  tliaf  inontli,  or  knowlcd;;^  of  Lucy  liarlmry,  on 
or  al'fcr  llial  day,  Ik;  ilcclinod  answering.  Several  stran- 
gers had  sinee  stayed  with  the  nuns,  he  said,  in  answer. 

"  Have  you  sent  away,  or  procured  to  go  away,  any 
nuns  from  this  eonunuuity,  within  two  w(!eks  ?  "  (He- 
ciined.) 

''  Do  you  know  of  any  nuns  having  gone  away  within 
two  w('(!ks  ?  "     "  Yes." 

"  Do  you  know  to  what  phiee  they  went  ?  "     "  No." 

"  Do  you  know  where  they  now  an;  ?  "     "  No." 

"  Where  they  have  been  ?  "     "  No." 

"  Have  you  sent  away,  or  |)ro(;ured,  or  advised,  or 
given  means  for,  the  going  away  of  any  fishermen,  or 
boatmen, or  other  men,  within  two  we<;ks?"     (Declined.) 

"  Let  me  advise  you,"  said  the  Judge,  "  that  any  of 
these  questions,  that  admit  of  easy  answer,  you  should 
answer  ;  for  it  will  not  oidy  further  the  ends  of  justice, 
but  be  better  for  yoursidf." 

The  Priest  this  time  retaiiat  "d  for  the  tone  of  decision 
and  authority  with  which  he  had  himself  been  addressed 
at  the  beginning ;  and  his  eye  flashed,  and  he  smiled 
slightly,  as  he  answered  : — 

"  The  ends  of  justice  I  need  not  think  so  much  of  just 
now  ;  but  my  own  secin-ity  and  interest  I  feel  quite  com- 
petent to  take  care  of." 

The  Judge  bowed  gravely. 

"  Have  you  any  stat(!ment  to  make  ?  or  do  you  wish  to 
say  any  thing  upon  the  subject  or  matter  of  this  exami- 
nation ?  A  record  is  kept,  of  which  a  copy  will  be  fur- 
nished to  the  Grand  Jury." 

"  I  have  only  respectfully  to  refer  to  a  certain  affidavit 
published  by  me  two  days  ago,  of  which  I  will  ask  leave 
to  procure  a  copy." 


I       f 


082 


THli  NKW  PKIKST. 


i     I  ''    : 


' 


/.'^  '^ 


"  I  liav*^  one  licrc.  It  dorsn't  incddh'  with  tlui  rniiiii 
|>oiiil. — 1  should  h«'  <;hul  to  ;j;ivL'  you  inon;  time,  and  wouhl 
ur^c  upon  you  njnuin  l\w  importance  of  t'lrarin«»  up  any 
thiiinr  cMpahh' of  clcariii'^  up  ;  for  I  sliall  fcrl  it  neces.sary, 
as  thinjj;s  now  stand,  to  hohl  you  to  answer  to  the  terrihh; 
char<i;e  of  liorniciih;  ;  as  I  think  the  jifirl  may  be  traeed  to 
your  custody,  and  you  neitiier  produce;  her  nor  offer  any 
explanation,  but  studiously  conceal  every  thing  connected 
with  the  fact.  Tiiis  concealment  itsj'lf  may  be  held,  in 
such  a  case,  to  furnish  evidence  of  criminal  intent.  As 
there  is  no  conclusive  j)roof  belorc;  me  yet,  of  guilt,  and 
as  the  body  has  not  been  found,  1  shall  admit  you  to  bail 
in  a  sullicient  sum — two  thousand  pounds." 

The  mention  of  the  startling  character  of  the  charge 
sent  a  thrill  through  tlu;  company  present,  and  even  vis- 
ibly affected  the  accused  himself,  but  only  momentarily. 

"  I  am  astonished,"  said  he,  "  but  in  nowise  alarmed. 
A  charge  so  uttei-ly  baseless  cannot  be  sustained  for  an 
instant.  I  don't  know  who  is  at  the  bottom  of  it ;  but 
while  it  can  do  me  no  harm,  it  will  do  him  no  good." 

As  his  eye  passed  romid  the  room,  in  saying  this,  a 
liasty  look  of  something  like  defiance  flashed  into  his  face 
at  one  point  of  the  circuit,  l)ut  went  out  instantly  : — at 
that  point  the  sad,  handsome  features  of  Father  Debree 
were  to  be  seen. 

The  Urstons,  father  and  son,  examined  separately,  un- 
der oath,  answered  readily  all  questions,  but,  however 
tried,  never  contradicted  themselves  or  one  another  ;  nor 
did  any  thing  appear,  strange  as  it  might  seem,  showing 
any  participation  on  their  |)art,  or  knowledge  of  the  mys- 
terious disappearance.  The  fact  of  the  young  man's 
attachment  to  Skipper  George's  daughter,  and  of  his 
abandonment  of  pniparation  for  the  priesthood,  appcjued 


[\\{\  injiin 
nil  would 
rr  up  any 
lercs.Hary, 
le  ternbl«i 

traced  to 

otter  any 
con!ieete«l 
)e  held,  in 
itent.     Aa 

guilt,  and 
you  to  bail 

the  eharnje 
d  even  vis- 
men  tar  ily. 
^e  alarmed, 
jned  for  an 
of  it ;  but 
ffood." 
ying  this,  a 
nto  his  face 
tantly : — at 
icr  Debree 

[arately,  un- 
ft,  however 
lother;  nor 
|m,  showing 
)f  the  mys- 
Lung   man's 
and  of  his 
ll,  appeared 


EXAMINATION. 


163 


from  his  father  and  otiior  witnesses.  At  the  same  tinu», 
there  were  plenty  of  J'oterport  men  at  luuul,  who  knew 
and  testified  that  botii  father  and  son  had  been  out  in  the 
Hearch  from  about  dark  till  early  morning,  and  that  thit 
bon  had  been  ever  since,  for  nuich  of  his  time,  occupied 
iu  trying  to  find  some  trace  of  the  lost  maiden. 

Mrs.  Calloran  appeared  to  be  tlu;  only  one  of  t)ie  fam- 
ily who  was  at  home  during  the  time  at  which  the  party 
had  been  seen  to  go  from  the  house  to  the  water.  Slu; 
was  not  sworn,  and  was  cautioned  not  to  endanger  herself. 
This  caution  slui  heard  twice  over  and  then  threw  herself 
upon  her  guard,  like  a  hedgehog,  armed  at  all  points  with 
wariness  and  suspicion. 

She  said  (in  answer  to  a  question  to  that  ettect)  that  slio 
had  seen  two  nims  at  Peterport  two  weeks  ago  ;  but  then 
corrected  herself  by  saying  that  she  had  often  seen  mms 
there,  and  "  begged  his  lordship  not  to  be  asking  ques- 
tions at  her,  to  get  her  into  trouble ;  for  she  was  not 
larn'd." 

The  j)unt  overhauled  by  Captain  Nolesworth,  seemed, 
at  this  examination,  like  a  phantom-bark.  No  evidence 
could  trace  one  of  the  crew  or  occupants. 

In  default  of  £200  bail,  the  last  witness  was  committed 
to  the  custody  of  the  jailer. 

In  lialf  an  hour,  bail  had  appeared  for  Father  Nicho- 
las, hi<»  two  sureties  being,  one  a  Churchman,  and  the 
other  a  Roman  Catholic  merchant. 

So  the  examination  was  ended. 

"  They've  gone  after  that  punt,  have  they  ? "  asked 
the  Attorney  general  of  the  SheriflF,  who,  having  made 
inquiry,  answered,  "  Yes,  and  that  she  would  soon  be 
heard  from." 

"  Who  went  in  charge  of  the  pursuit  ?  There  may  be 
a  good  deal  depending." 


I 


HI 


in 


lA 


1^ 


i 


THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

« I'm  told  he's  the  surest  hand  in  the  Bay,"  answered 
the  ShcriflF,  and  then  added  something  in  a  low  voice,  to 
which  the  Attorncy-jjeneral  answered : — 

"  You  must  make  sure  of  the  chief  witness  for  the 
Crown  being  forthcoming,  and  find  the  Body  I  *' 


m 


A  NIGHT'S  BOAT-RACE. 


385 


CHAPTER  XLII. 


A  night's  boat-race. 


I  HEN  Gilpin  left  Jesse  Hill  standing  near  the 
Mission,  as  mentioned  in  the  last  chapter,  it 
was  to  run  to  the  boat's  crew,  waiting  at  the 
water-side.  Three  of  them  were  there  and  had  seen 
nothing  and  heard  nothing  stri.nge  or  noticeable.  Two 
of  their  number  were  off  in  one  direction,  and  two  in 
another,  one  way  up  and  one  down  the  harbor,  scouting. 

"  There's  the  Priests*  punt,  then,  anyway,  and  no  life  in 
her,"  said  Skipper  Charles.  "  I'll  bide  here,  a-bit.  It 
can't  be  long,  if  they've  got  any  gumpshi.n  amongst  'em." 

Upon  the  word  some  men  came  hurrying ;  these  were 
from  up  the  harbor.  Our  constable  had  his  wits  about 
him,  more  than  ever,  that  night.  Before  the  men  have 
got  to  him,  he  sends  off,  post-haste,  for  the  other  couple, 
down  the  harbor,  and  his  ear  is  open  for  the  story  of  the 
comers. 

The  carriage  was  the  only  one,  such  as  it  was,  in  a  long 
walk,  in  those  days ;  nothing  for  horse  or  horses,  but  a 
hand-wagon,  so  to  say,  known  every  where  as  Peter 
Laverty's. 

It  had  gone  down  with  plenty  of  whispering,  but  in  no 
great  hurry,  to  Bryan's  stage ;  and  there,  after  much  bus- 
tle, had  transferred  its  load,  or,  at  least,  what  seemed  a 

26 


1  '  {'' 

'  :f  1 

f 

38(5 


THK  NKW  ruiiisr. 


siok  woman,  was  liftod  out  of  it,  luul  pjissod  into  .a  boiif ; 
thii  Priost  saiil  "  INIind!"  tlio  men  nnswHM'od  "  V«'s,  your 

rOV(M(M»Cc,''  jUhI  tii«-li  xdViO  ot    thi;  » «>iii|tiili  y    wciii    liiick. 

'Vhvi  ni(>:isur('(l  sound  of  oars  t-anjo  on  tlio  car  as  tin's 
Innriod  report  was  made  ;  it  was  tlni  boat. 

**  Now  !  our  otiior  hoys!  Tlioy  loliows  unis'  sliow  us 
ji  piod  load,  if  they  think  wo  won't  conio  up  to  tlioin. 
Thoy'il  liavo  nothiuij;  inuoh  start  of  us,  hut  tho  host  hojit 
iu  tho  IVy."     (Zohodoo  Manhant  (liis  spokosuiau  was.) 

"  Aro  yon  Ihorc.  LatHord  ?  "  askod  Skipper  CiiarU's. 

"Ay!  I'm  iiere,"  said  a  silent  man,  sitting  on  a  keg 
and  smoking. 

"  You  know  what  ileptMuhMiee  tluM'c  is  on  you,  lo-night," 
«ii«l  the  const ahle. 

"  I  can't  say  lor  that  ;  hut  if  there's  aught  for  luc  to  do, 
ril  try  and  do  it.  Now,  then,  lads!  there's  your  com- 
raiU's  ;  "  and  Ladlord's  pip«>  was  gone  sud(h>nly,  like  u 
tiretly  llown  ;  and  luwt,  he  himself  had  «lisappeare<l  below 
th(>  stage-lu>ad.  Down  w<'nt  the  others,  (ho  whole  boat's 
crew,  six,  seven,  counting  Ladlord. 

"Tlu>re's  i/our  comnnssion,  Will   Ladford — let's  see — 

we've   got  documents  enough   i'or   to-night, the   little 

one, — v«>s,  that's  il. —  \jO[  'cm  get  clear  o'  the  harbor,  you 
know^ " 

"1  don't  go  skipptM-,"  said  Ladford,  as  if  settling  a 
point  which  was  mooted  between  them;  "hut  don't  los(? 
time  upon  it ;  some  on  us  '11  do  wha''s  wantun.  I  don't 
want  to  tak(r  hold  o'  one  o'  tlu^y  things.  I'll  take  helum, 
or  stroke-oar,  or  bow-oar.  Don't  gi'  me  none  o'  they  j).';- 
pei's  ;  I've  seen  too  much,  and  I've — shove  off.  Take  it, 
you,  Zippity.  Up  mainsail !  Up  fon'sail !  Brail  uj)  till 
we  get  out.  Oars  !  (tivc  it  to  her,  boys  1  Take  it  easy  ; 
we  shall  want  our  arms,  bumby." 


"I" 


A    NfOIirs   nOAT  RACK. 


.187 


All  Lndford's  lifflo  Ppoccli,  tlioiigli 

nin-s  ^Mvcii,  WMH  drlivM-n-d  willi  jiist  ihrcn 
vrunifxh  to  fjinnr  its  ir»c!iniii<r  to  the  n\r^  for  wliicli  it  vvum 
in(<'!i(l('(|,  iiiid   very   littl(>   iiolHr  whh,  altdfrrtlicr,  made   by 


tli(^  d('|>{iftiii<5  ""'■'•f-     ^^'ilpi"  and  Isanc,  passinjjia  word  t 
t^ctlMT,  went  away  in  company. 


o- 


Tl 


H'  inooti  is  not  up  yrf,  hut  is  risirifr,  and,  tlu»uj;li 
above  tiu'iii,  ban  fiot  liiirly  put.  down  and  compinrd  llie 
fj^rrat,  damp  sbadows  tiiat  croiicb  ami  biik  nbotit. 

On!    into    (br    sircatn,  tln-n   ontward    to   tin'.    Hay,  all 

i<i;,  onr  boat  f)ulls 
«!  nearer  to 


Hleady  and  slili,  and  Will  Ladlord  Hieerii 
on,  nnieb  in  tlie  eonrse  of  tlie  otiier,  bnt  a  liltl 
tbe  town,  to  liave  tbe  weatlier-f^an^i^e,  If  possibb",  wbafever 
tlie  cbase  may  mean  to  d(».  A  Utile  beyond  tbe  island  in 
tbe  barbor,  tbey  see  tin;  rival  boat  abead,  feelin^r  tbe  fipst 
wind  bnt  settin;r  no  sail  as  yet;  only  tbe  wafer  is  (birke,n- 
in<jj  all  ab«)nt  tbem,  as  it  is  ron^rliened  np  by  tbe  freslu^n- 
in^  breeze.  Tben,  belong  onr  men  bave  (r(,f,  into  it,  tbo 
otbers  spread  tlieir  sails,  put  off  tbeir  bow  a  point  or 
two,  and  tbeir  sli;j;bt  craft  leans  over  as  if  sbe  were 
listenin^r  to  tbe  fi:nr<rllnjr  .,nd  tbe  rip|)lin;;  at  ber  side. 
Onr  men  sweep  on,  witb  a  p^ood,  stron^^  steady  sweep, 


and  not  a  word  said.    Tbe  1 


)reeze  be<jjins  to  come  in  flaw 


lemptinn;  tbe  sails  ;  bnt  (be  of ber;^,  abead 


,  are  carry in;:^  o 


itr 


le  oar  chariire 


all   tli(!  wind  in   tbeir  canvas   ba'^s.     Tbere  are  notbin" 
bnt  little  flaws  bere — bnt  a  few  strokes  of  tl 
tbin^ijs  wonderfnily. 

"  Now  jrive  hvv  ber  winnrs,  lads,"  said  Will  Ladford, 


cb 


and  sbe  fbitters  tbeni  once  or  t 
her  eonrse  like  tbe  other. 
"  Sbe  1 


wiee,  an 


d  tl 


»en  IS  settin 


g 


imps  a  little,  to-night,"  said  Ladford.    They  un- 
derstood him  as  sj)eaking  of  the  boat  pnrsned,  and  one  of 


them  answered,  "  Tlien  si 


le's  not  well  bandl(Ml,  I'm  think- 


i 


iiP» 


m 


Ui 


388 


THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


in'."  They  all  felt  that  their  own  was  managed  as  it 
ought  to  be. 

"  We're  gainin'  on  her ;  we're  drawin'  up  wi'  her  ;  we 
shall  overhaul  her,  if  we  goes  on  at  this  rate,"  they  said. 

"  We'll  see  that ;  "  said  Ladford  ;  "  but  if  we  can't  one 
w'y,  we  can  another.  We  can  pull  up  wi'  her,  ef  there's 
no  more  wind  stirrin'  than  this,  and  they  can't  help  or 
hender  us." 

A  race  of  sail-boats  in  a  moonlight  night,  iS  a  very 
pretty  thing ;  but  here,  while  the  whole  land  was  lying 
sleeping,  what  warm  and  eager  life  was  going  in  these 
boats  !  All  eyes  among  William  Ladford's  company  were 
set  toward  the  little  sloop  ahead. 

"  Somebody's  got  hold  of  her  that  knows  hisself  pooty 
well,  for  all,"  said  \V  ill  Ladford,  "  but  he's  losin'  ground 
upon  us,  I  believe.  There's  a  strange  caper !  There 
goes  his  gaff-topsail !  What  can  they  mean  ?  There ! 
they've  got  it  up  again  ;  the  halyard  gave  way.  That'll 
help  us  on,  many  a  good  foot ; "  and  indeed  his  little 
boat  seemed  to  be  pulling  the  other  back,  while  she  ad- 
vanced herself. 

Both  parties  were  as  still  as  two  deep  streams  flowing 
on  under  the  night.  About  the  boat  there  is  a  constant 
babble  of  waters,  as  of  travellers  overtaken  on  the  road 
and  passed.  Ladford's  companions — most,  or  all  of  them 
— gazed  through  the  moonlight,  under  the  sails,  at  the 
little  sloop  and  those  she  carried — dark,  silent  figures,  and 
a  sort  of  heap,  or  crowd,  or  something  that  was  not  fisher- 
man, and  might  be, — lying  on  a  couch,  or  bundled  up, 
in  the  boat's  bottom — the  lost  Lucy.  Ladford  sat  up 
straight  and  steered,  looking  all  ways,  without  moving  his 
head,  and  at  the  same  time  seeming  to  have  his  eye  on 
any  one  that  looked  towards  him.     With  his  old  canvas 


A  NIGHT'S   BOAT-RACE. 


389 


hat  and  shabby  clothes,  most  meanly  dressed  of  all  of 
thera,  (and  you  have  heard  his  speech  too,  just  the  coarse 
dialect  of  the  island  ;)  he  looked  poetical  and  picturesque. 
If  you  give  a  man  command,  whether  it  be  of  a  body  of 
men,  or  of  a  horse  or  of  a  boat — something  that  has  a 
power  and  will  of  its  own, — there  is  always  this  interest 
about  him,  and  the  more  in  proportion  as  the  force  and 
will  controlled  are  greater.  One  man,  a  genius  for  ex- 
ample, full  of  power  and  passion,  is  a  nobler  object,  con- 
trolling and  commanding  himself,  than  almost  any.  But 
to  our  chase ! 

There  was  Belle-isle,  away  ahead,  with  its  great,  deep 
shadow,  making  the  water  look  so  dark  and  deep,  and, 
except  to  eyes  that  knew  it  and  saw  what  was  not  to  be 
seen  in  this  light,  there  was  no  separation,  to  the  sight, 
between  the  island  and  the  main  beyond,  or  between  the 
island  and  its  companions.  Great  and  Little  Kelley's,  or 
however  the  lesser  one  is  called. 

They  are  coming  near  the  boat  ahead  of  them,  and  not 
a  word  is  said  on  either  side. 

"  Tim  Croonan,"  said  Will  Ladford,  giving  to  his 
companions  the  name  of  the  other  helmsman,  as  if  he 
just  touched  each  of  his  boat's  crew  with  a  conductor 
of  magnetic  influence — the  sound  not  being  wasted  or 
spreading  out  beyond.  In  the  other  boat  no  noise  or 
motion  of  the  people  indicated  their  consciousness  of  any 
body's  being  on  the  water  but  themselves.  Steadily  the 
following  boat  drew  up  a  little  to  windward  of  the  sloop. 

"  Hail  him,  you  Zippity ! "  said  Ladford,  and  as  the 
words  left  his  lips,  Zebedee  flung  his  hail,  in  quick,  sharp 
voice — there  was  no  need  of  loud — over  the  water.  It 
struck  upon  the  bellying  sails,  and  part  of  it  came  back. 
It  seemed  as  if  it  all  came  back ;  at  all  events  it  did  not 


III 


390 


THE   NEW   PRIEST. 


mm 


seem  to  touch  the  people  in  the  other  boat,  more  than  so 
many  dead  men  sailing  in  moonlight  on  the  sea. 

''Ahoy,  Skipper!"  was  flung  across  again;  "  hilloa, 
there  ! "  but  with  no  more  efTect  than  if  he  and  his  were 
all  in  the  soundest  sleep.  On  they  all  went  again,  in  si- 
lence ;  the  moon  shining,  the  shadows  stretching,  the 
water  babbling  ;  but  two  men  do  not  keep  along,  side  by 
side,  in  street  or  highway,  if  one  or  both  be  waiting  for 
an  opportunity,  without  soon  coming  into  communication. 
So  it  was  here.  The  boats  were  nearly  abreast  of  each 
other,  and  thirty  or  forty  yards  apart. 

"  Can  ye  find  never  sea-room  for  yourself,  but  must 
be  coming  and  taking  the  wind  out  of  us,  intirely  ?  "  asked 
the  man  whom  Ladford  had  called  Tim  Croonan,  turning 
hplf  round  and  then  back  again.  He  spoke  like  a  man 
that  is  insulted ;  but  this  time  there  was  no  answer  out  of 
Ladford's  boat. 

"  Why  don't  you  answer  un,  then,  Zippity  ?  "  asked 
Ladford,  gently ;  "  you  knows  I  want  to  keep  myself 
quiet." 

"  But  you're  the  oldest  of  us,  and  you  can  do  it  best, 
too,"  answered  Zebedee. 

"  That's  Misther  Ladford,  it  is,"  said  Croonan,  stretch- 
ing out  the  words,  as  if  he  were  jainting  them  in  very 
large  letters,  to  the  eyes  of  his  hearers,  with  a  hand 
pointing  at  them.     "  Misther  Ladford,  and  nothing  less." 

"  We  don't  want  to  quarrel,  Mr.  Croonan,"  said  Zip- 
pity,  taking  up  his  office  at  this  juncture,  "  We've  got  a 
little  business  with  you,  that's  all." 

"  Wid  me,  is  it,  ye  have  business  ?  This  is  a  purty 
time  and  place  to  come  on  business  afther  me ;  and  the 
more  to  it,  that  I  think  I  don't  know  yiz,  nor  ever  seen 
yiz  in  my  life,  unless  it's  Misther  Ladford,  there,"  (em- 


A  NIGHT'S  BOAT-RACE. 


391 


than  so 

«  hilloa, 
his  were 
lin,  in  si- 
ling,  the 
;,  side  by 
liting  for 
inication. 
of  each 

but  must 
?  "  asked 
n,  turning 
ike  a  man 
^'er  out  of 

?"  asked 
p  myself 

do  it  best, 

ri,  stretch- 
(1  in  very 
a  hand 
ng  less." 
[Said  Zip- 
've  got  a 

a  purty 

I;  and  the 

^ver  seen 

re,"  (em- 


phasizing and  stretching  the  word^^  ngain,)  "  and  I  don't 
know  him  too  well.  Is  it  me,  alone,  or  the  whole  iv  us, 
yeVe  got  bu-<iness  with  ?  " 

Will  Ladford,  saying  nothing,  eased  off  his  mainsheet, 
or  let  his  mainsail  go,  a  little,  so  as  not  to  get  ahead,  but 
to  keep  even  pace,  while  his  spokesman  answered  : — 

"  It's  with  all  of  you,  I  suppose.  Is  Lucy  Barbury  in 
that  boat  ?  " 

"  Who's  Lucy  Barbury,  then  ?  And  what's  it  to  you, 
I'd  like  to  know,  who's  in  this  boat  ?  "  inquired  Croonan. 
"Give  that  topsail  a  stretch,  now,  so." 

Up  went  the  topsail ;  the  sheets  of  the  other  sails  rattled 
a  little  as  they  ran,  and  the  sloop  was  beginning  to  hold 
her  own  or  more.  In  came  Ladford's  mainboom,  again, 
a  hand's  breadth  or  two,  and  another  hand's  breadth  or 
two,  until  he  was  satisfied. 

"  We've  come  to  look  after  Lucy  Barbury,"  said  Will's 
spokesman,  following  up  his  advance. 

"  Well,  look  afther  her,  then ;  and  take  care  ye  don't 
miss  her,  the  light  being  a  little  dim,  ye  know,"  returned 
Croonan. 

"  We  don't  want  to  mistrust  e'er  a  one  ;  we  wants  only 
just  to  know  ef  Lucy's  there,  that's  all." 

"  Them  that's  in  this  boat  belongs  here,  is  all  I've  got 
to  say,  at  the  present  time." 

"  But  if  she's  there  she  doesn't  belong  there,  and  that's 
all  we  want  to  know.  Will  you  please  to  tell  us  what 
female  you've  got  there,  then  ?  " 

"  No,  I  will  not ;  only  she's  not  your's,  anny  way.  Ye 
may  take  yer  oath  of  that,  if  ye  like." 

Ladford,  having  the  weather-gauge,  used  it,  and  kept 
away  a  little  for  the  sloop. 

"  If  you  run  into  us,  or  come  foul  of  us, — mind,  if  we 
don't  sink  ye !  "  said  Croonan  sternly. 


i  11 

Ml 


,i  ^ 


392 


THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


n>! 


Ladfbrd  said  nothing ;  but  his  boat  was  running  down 
the  diagonal  that  would  bring  her  up,  before  long,  with 
the  left,  or  larboard,  bow  of  the  other. 

"  Now,  I  think  I've  given  you  fair  warning,"  said  the 
helmsman  of  the  latter.  "  Tell  me,  now,  will  ye  keep 
away  ? — Boat-hook,  Paddy !  "  he  said,  aside,  to  one  of 
his  crew. — "  I  say,  will  ye  keep  away,  now  ?  " 

They  drew  nearer  and  nearer;  scarce  three  boats* 
lengths  separated  them. 

"  I  warn  ye,  now,  to  keep  clear  of  us ! "  repeated 
Croonan. 

"  Will  you  plase  just  to  let  us  see  who  you've  got  ?  " 
asked  Ladford,  taking,  for  the  first  time,  a  part  in  the  con- 
versation. "  It's  only  because  of  Lucy  that's  lost ;  and 
sure,  ef  it  was  your  case,  you'd  want  the  same.  Will 
you  only  let  one  of  us  come  aboard  ?  " 

"  Misther  Ladfbrd's  found  his  tongue,  at  last !  I  thought 
mebbe,  you'd  got  a  cold,  being  exposed  to  the  weather, 
and  not  being  used  to  it.  Now,  I  tell  ye  there's  no 
Lucy  Barbury  here  ;  Avill  that  do  ye  ?  "  said  Croonan. 

"  You've  put  us  off  so,  we'd  like  to  look  for  ourselves, 
if  you  plase,"  answered   Zebedee,  taking  up  his  office 


agam. 


"  I'm  thinkin'  ye'll  wait  till  ye're  axed,  then,"  said  the 
other ;  "  and  mind,  I  warn  ye,  if  you  meddle  with  this 
boat,  if  I  don't  sink  you,  or  do  harm  to  you ! " 

Ladford  kept  on,  and  came  within  a  boat's  length. 

"  Take  you  the  helm,  Paddy,"  said  Croonan,  hastily. 
"  Give  me  that ! "  and,  snatching  the  boat-hook  out  of 
Paddy's  hands,  as  he  ran  forward,  he  laid  hold  of  the 
end  of  Ladford's  foremast,  which  leaned  over  towards  him, 
and  bore  down  upon  it  with  all  his  weight. 

"I'll  give  them  one  small  piece  of  a  ducking,  anny 


•I.: 


A  NIGHT'S   BOAT-RACE. 


393 


way,  that  I  don't  think  '11  do  any  harrm  to  them  ; "  and,  aa 
he  bore  down,  the  water  already  began  to  gurgle  against 
the  rowlocks,  along  the  gunwale,  and  to  come  into  Lad- 
ford's  boat  in  a  thick  waterfall. 

Saying  nothing,  the  helmsman  of  the  boat  which  was 
thus  going  gunwale  under,  in  the  midst  of  that  wide  bay, 
at  night,  and  where  it  might  be  thirty  fatlioms,  or  fifty,  or 
a  hundred,  down  to  the  bottom,  thrust  up  an  oar,  just  as 
it  was  wanted,  again  *  the  mischievous  weapon,  and 
cleared  the  mast  from  its  hold.  Before  Croonan  got  his 
balance  again,  and  got  the  wield  of  his  boat-hook.  Lad- 
ford's  little  craft  had  righted,  and  he  was  at  the  helm. 
She  felt  the  wind,  and  got  her  headway  once  more,  which 
she  had  nearly  lost.  As  they  drew  up  again,  Ladford 
said : — 

"  I  don't  want  to  quarrel  with  any  man.  I  want  to 
keep  quiet,  and  clear  of  all  mischief:  but  don't  'ee  try  that 
again,  friend.  'Ee  can't  ketch  us  another  time,  and  if  'ee 
breaks  our  mast,  when  we  won't  let  it  go  down,  next  time, 
it  '11  be  a  provocation.  'Ee'd  better  let  one  of  us  come 
quietly  aboard  of  'ee,  and  right  back  again." 

The  boat-hook  took,  this  time,  the  direction  of  the  gun- 
wale, and,  resting  on  it,  kept  the  two  craft  asunder. 
Ladford  put  up  his  helm,  and  his  boat,  turning  on  the  end 
of  the  boat-hook  as  on  a  fulcrum,  brought  her  bow  right 
up  against  the  breast  of  the  other,  flinging  the  latter, 
also,  at  the  same  time,  up  into  the  wind.  Croonan  raised 
his  boat-hook,  and  brought  it  down  in  the  way  of  wreaking 
summary  vengeance  on  thi.:  determined  non-combatant's 
head.  It  grazed  the  shoulder  of  the  man  it  was  intended 
to  stun  or  admonish  severely,  and,  at  the  instant,  he,  seiz- 
ing it  with  one  strong  back  hand,  as  he  stood,  brought  the 
other  over  to  it,  and  pulled  in  on  it.     For  his  part,  the 


Pr 


!    N 

i  (I 


394 


THK   NK^V   PRIEST. 


r  (J 


!  !■ 


1  fe      'J 


M^M     :  i? 


holdor  of  the  other  end  «*lung  to  it,  not  to  he  robbed  of 
hia  own  bont-liook,  juul  tlie  two  boats  now  came  together 
astern,  both  heading  up  into  th(>  wind. 

At  sea,  one  learns  to  do  twenty  things  in  litth'  time, 
and  in  hot  moments  one  enn  do  twenty  times  as  mneh  as 
eonimon ;  so  the  boats'  eoming  together  was  not  the  only 
thing  that  was  aeeomjdished  now.  Tim  Croonan  went, 
sideways  and  baekwards,  overboard  in  a  moment. 

All  this  seene,  being  mannged  and  shitted  by  those  who 
understood  it,  was  very  short ;  but  a  good  deal  more  was 
done  in  it  than  has  been  reeorded.  When  things  began 
to  thieken,  a  female  voiee  was  heard,  alarmed,  and  crying 
out,  "  not  to  get  into  trouble."  Tim  Croonan's  comrades 
hurried  aft,  to  rescue  him, — (and  let  it  be  remembered 
that  fishermen  and  sailors  nirely  know  how  to  swim). — 
The  cry  was,  "  Where  is  he  ?  " 

Ladford  called  John,  and,  putting  his  mouth  close  to 
the  other's  ear,  said,  in  a  most  emphatic  voice,  "  Keep  a 
sharp  eye  about  this  man /or  sharks." 

"Is  that,  there,  the  oidy  lady  or  female  there  is  on 
board?"  inquired  he,  aloud,  as  unmoved  as  if  he  did  not 
care  a  straw  for  the  man's  life,  which  might  be  washed 
out  by  the  waters  of  this  cold,  dark  bay,  like  the  life  of  a 
tobacco-i)ipe,  or  crunched  out  by  obscene  and  hideous 
teeth. 

"  You're  a  man,  are  ye,  then  ?  "  as^ked  one  of  the  other 
crew.  "  A  man's  drowning !  Where  is  he  ?  Where  is 
he  ?  What's  that,  there  ?  "  many  voices  joined  in  crying 
out. 

Whether  it  was  that  the  smuggler  of  other  days  had  got 
his  old  nature  alive  in  him,  as  things  began  to  warm,  or 
for  whatever  reason,  Ladford  took  no  new  animation  into 
him.     "  He's  safe  enough,"  said  he.     "  Look  there,  some 


A  NIGHTS   BOAT-KACE. 


395 


bbcd  of 
toj^cthcr 


tie  time, 
much  as 
the  only 
an  went, 

• 

hose  who 
more  was 
ijrs  be<;an 
nd  crying 
comrades 
iiembered 
I  swim). — 

h  close  to 
^  "  Keep  a 

here  is  on 
lie  did  not 
Ibc  washed 
le  lite  of  a 
id  hideous 

the  other 
Where  is 
in  crying 

lys  had  got 

warm,  or 
Ration  into 
kerc,  some 


of  ye.  forward,  and  sec  ef  there's  no  more  in  the  t'other 
one.     No  Lucy  ?  " 

"  No !  no  Liicy,"  was  the  answer.  "  There's  two  of 
'em,  but  no  Lucy  !  " 

So  this  night  sail,  excitement,  and  bad  blood; — nothing 
had  come  of  it,  unless  it  should  give  rise  to  future  (juar- 
ruls.  Ladibrd  and  all  liiA  men  had  hoped,  and  hope  had 
become  i'arncst,  as  they  drew  near  the  object  of  their 
chase.  They  did  not  know  how  nuich  their  hope  had 
been  until  they  lost  it;  and  now  they  were  hardly  ready 
for  any  thing,  so  <lisap|)()iuted  were  they,  lias  the  reader 
been  disappointetl  ?  lie  knew  what  these  boatmen  did 
not,  yet. 

It  was  not  so  with  the  other  crew.  They  could  not  be 
idle  or  listless. 

"  Down  with  that  fellow  !  He's  murdering  Croonan ! 
Strike  the  bloody  fellow  down  !  Let  go  of  that  man,  I 
tell  you  now  !     He's  holding  him  down  in  the  water!" 

Ladtbrd  had  providently  widened  the  distance  between 
himself  and  them,  and  he  had  their  boat-hook.  Oars, 
therefore,  were  their  only  weapons  of  offence,  or  means 
of  gra[)pling.  Several  oars  were  lifted  in  the  air ;  but 
Ladford  threw  them  all  up  with  a  weapon  of  words. 

"  Have  a  care,  now,  friends.  I've  said  I  want  to  be 
peaceable.  Ef  you  wants  to  help  your  friend,  avast  with 
your  striking.  I've  done  more'n  I  maned  to  done,  for  I 
did  not  mane  to  do  the  laste  vi'lence  to  e'er  a  one  ;  but  I 
haven'  done  much.  This  man  thought  to  give  us  a  wet- 
ting,—  so  he  said, — and  he've  agot  one.  Here,  then, 
friend,  take  to  your  own  boat.  I'm  sorry  to  've  adoned 
any  thing  ;  but  you  brought  it  on  yourself." 

As  he  said  this,  the  noise  and  stru<];gle,  which  had  been 
going  on  near  the  stern  of  his  craft,  was  explained  by  his 


I 


11 

hi 


II 


c 


0:l< 


396 


THK  NEW   PRIKST. 


hofirinpj  round,  with  his  arm.  to  the  opnn  spaoo  between, 
the  body  of  Tim  Croonan,  whom  he  iuul  be(ui  keeping, 
uiid  keeping  in  the  water,  by  u  iiold  of  his  clothes,  from 
which  tlie  man  in  tiie  water  had  not  been  able  to  disen- 
gage himself.  Croonan  had  struggled,  but  had  been  too 
proud  to  utter  a  word. 

"  Give  mo  a  hold  of  your  oar,"  said  Ladford,  to  one  of 
the  men  opposite;  and,  g<!tting  hold  of  one,  he  held  it 
while  they  drew  the  boats  nearly  tog«*th(!r  again,  with  the 
floating  man  between  them.  Croonan  had  soon  hold  of 
the  gunwale  over  which  he  had  been  dragged  into  the 
8(;a,  and,  being  released  from  the  restraining  hold,  was 
presently  on  board. 

As  William  Ladford  let  go  the  oar,  he  fell  back  with  a 
groan,  for  the  men  at  the  other  end  had  given  him  a 
fierce  thrust. 

"  That  bloody  old  smuggler  '11  hear  of  this  again,"  said 
some  of  the  rival  crew  ;  but,  generally,  in  Newfoundland, 
vengeance,  if  sought,  is  not  wreaked  very  ferociously.  It 
is  not  likely  to  be  so  in  this  case;  but  it  sometimes  is. 


'  1 1!:', 


mW-  i  • 


'i 


iiif  ij 


WHAT  FATKEK  DEIJKKK   WAS  TOLD,  ETC.       397 


CHAPTER  XLIII. 


WUAT     FATHER     DEHKKK     WAS     TOLD,    AND     VUIL.T 

HE    DID. 


jf^\  LL  Conception-Bay  (that  is,  the  people  of  it,) 
^^^^   was  restless  and  excited  on  the  morning  after  the 
W^V  occurrences  of  the  ni^lit  just  descrihed,  and  had 
as  much  to  talk  of,  as  if  it  had  been  raining  hail  or  mete- 
oric stones.     Indeed,  many  of  its  people  had  been  sleep- 
less. 

It  was  about  five  o'clock,  that  those  of  the  Peterport 
men  who  had  been  more  immediately  concerned  in  what 
was  done  on  land,  were  coming  home ;  but  tliere  were 
vastly  more  with  tlusm  tiian  had  been  with  them  during 
the  former  hours  of  the  night.     Jesse  Hill  was  one  of 
the  objects  of  chief  interest,  if  not  the  chief  (for  the  con- 
stable was  left  behind) ;  and  Isaac  Maffen  shone  with 
scarcely  lesser  lustre,  but  moved  faithfully  in  his  orbit, 
notwithstanding  the  eccentric  attractions  that  beset  him. 
Jesse  commented  upon  events,  and  Isaac  assented. 
Soon  Zebedee's  crew  drew  e)'es  and  ears  and  tongues. 
The  tide  of  men  swelled  with  added  numbers,  of  both 
sexes,  as  it  went  on ;  but,  about  Franks'  Cove,  spread 
itself,  in  all  directions,  and  there  remained,  an  excited 
and  heaving  mass  of  life  throughout  that  part  of  the 
harbor. 


li!.' 


398 


THE  NEW   PRIEST. 


At  some  distance  behind  the  returning  population, 
Father  Debree  walked  thoughtfully.  He  looked  weary 
with  night-watching,  or  unwell.  His  figure  was  less  erect 
and  firm  than  formerly,  and  his  step  less  strong.  As  he 
came  to  the  spot,  where,  a  few  weeks  before,  he  had 
stood  to  gaze  upon  the  scenery  of  the  place  to  which  ho 
had  come,  to  labor  and  live  in  it,  he  paused  unconsciously ; 
and  at  the  same  instant  a  hasty  step  approached,  and  a 
voice  addressed  him.  He  was  a  moment  in  recovering 
himself,  as  he  looked  into  the  beautiful  face  that  had  so 
suddenly  shown  itself.  The  words  spoken  were  as  abrupt 
as  the  apparition  ;  but  they  at  once  fixed  his  attention. 

"  You're  Father  Debree  ? — Pardon  me  ;  I  must  speak 
to  you :  I'm  a  friend  of  Mrs.  Barre's,  and  I  know  you're 
in  some  way  related  to  her.  She  needs  help,  sadly,  but 
will  never  ask  it.  Some  villain  has  slandered  her  char- 
acter; and  I  think  you  may  be  the  fittest  person  to  do 
justice  to  her.'* 

The  deep  emotion  that  possessed  the  Priest,  as  he 
listened  to  this  hurried  address,  seemed,  from  the  work- 
ings of  his  features,  to  go  through  many  changes ;  and, 
among  the  changes  or  expression, — surprise,  at  the  last 
words,  was  very  evident  amid  the  evident  pain  and  almost 
agony  of  his  look. 

Miss  Dare  hurriedly  explained  : — 

"  It  has  come  from  some  lloman  Catholic ;  and  a  priest 
who  knows  her,  can  best  put  down  the  lie.  I  think  the 
Freneys  know  where  it  came  from." 

Father  Debree  put  his  hand  to  his  brow,  and  stood 
Btill. 

'•  Won't  you  see  her  ? — She's  had  no  rest,  all  night." 

If  Father  Debree  had  looked  at  the  speaker,  he  might 
have  thought  that  she,  too,  had  not  rested. 


WHAT  FATHER  DEBREE  WAS  TOLD,  ETC.   399 

"  Do  you  know  who  did  it  ?  "  he  asked,  aflei  struggling 
for  the  mastery  of  his  feelings. 

"  No,  I  can  fancy ;  and  I  think  it's  one  that  has  done 
her  some  worse  wrong  before." 

As  quickly  as  light  flashes,  he  turned  his  straining  eyes 
upon  her,  and  seemed  to  read  her  thought  at  once. 

"  Poor,  noble  woman  ! — To  be  slandered,  after  all !  " 
said  he ;  and  his  lip  quivered,  his  voice  was  choked,  and 
tears  swam  in  his  eyes.  "  She  shall  be  righted,  if  I  can 
do  it ! — Yes — Yes — I  must  see  her,  one  moment.  Can  I 
see  her,  for  a  moment  ? — only  a  moment !  " 

It  was  scarce  day ;  and  yet  Miss  Dare  seemed  to  have 
no  more  thousrht  of  time  than  himself :  she  said : — 

«  Oh,  Yes  !  Do  !  Do ! "  and  led  him,  hurriedly,  to  the 
house. 

He  waited  at  the  door. 

When  Mrs.  Barre  came  down  stairs,  wan,  thin,  and 
careworn,  with  scarce  strength  to  walk,  she  evidently  had 
not  been  prepared  to  meet  him. 

"  Walter !  "  she  almost  shrieked,  as  she  sank  down. 
"  Have  you  come  to  me,  of  your  own  accord  ?  " 

It  was  not  possible  for  her  to  speak  more. 

"  Help ! "  cried  the  Priest ;  and  as  Miss  Dare  came, 
he  drew  near,  also,  and  laid  his  hand  upon  her  fore- 
head. 

It  seemed  as  if  the  very  touch  revived  her ;  for  she 
looked  up. 

"  Oh,  Walter  !  is  it  you  ?  "  she  said  again  :  "  how  pale 
you  are ! " 

She  took  his  hand  in  both  hers ;  but  he  gently  with- 
drew it. 

"  No,  Helen,"  he  said  ;  "  it  is  not  right." 

"Oh!  what  is  right,"  she  cried,  "if  that  is  not?  but 


,1 


■  0 

i.   if 


]¥.     !■ 


I     i 


400 


THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


Oh !  thank  you  for  calling  me  by  my  own  name  again  ;-— 
once  more ! " 

Miss  Dare  turned  away,  while  holding  Mrs.  Barre  in 
her  arms,  and  sobbed  convulsively,  at  the  unutterable 
pathos  and  the  patience  of  her  voice. 

The  Priest  spoke : — 

"  Who  has  wronged  you  ?  "  said  he.  "  Who  has  dared 
to  utter  a  breath  against  you  ?  Do  not  fear  to  speak 
before  this  young  lady ;  for  she  told  me.  Is  it  Father 
Crampton  ?— Tell  me  ! " 

"  No ;  never  mind  it :  I  have  borne  a  worse  thing. 
Let  it  alone, — unless  you  please  simply  to  contradict  the 
cruel  falsehood." 

"  But  I  implore  you,  Helen ! — I  do  not  speak  as  a 
priest — " 

"  I  cannot  tell ;  I  do  not  know." 

"  But  you  know  another  thing,  at  least  I  pray  you, 
as  a  brother,  not  as  a  priest, — was  it  Crampton  that  you 
meant,  the  other  night,  in  what  you  told  me  of  the  con- 
fessional ?  " 

"  That  is  not  the  wrong  that  I  am  suffering.  That,  I 
vindicated  as  a  woman  :  I  cannot  meet  this." 

"  I  do  not  ask  for  vengeance-sake ; — God  forbid  ! — but 
to  do  right.  You  will  not  let  me  wrong  him.  Say  '  No,' 
if  it  was  not  he ;  will  you  ?  " 

"No.  I  say  'Yes;'  it  was  he.  I  may  as  well  say 
truth  plainly,  as  leave  it  to  be  inferred." 

"  Thank  you  ! "  he  said ;  and,  after  hesitating,  turned 
and  added : — 

"  If  it  be  any  thing, — if  it  can  be  any  thing, — be  sure 
that  I  honor  you  :  I  reverence  you, — blessed  woman  !  " 

He  was  gone,  instantly. 

Father  Debree  did  not  pause  any  where  along  the 


s  again  ;— 


WHAT   FATHER   DEBRKE   WAS   TOLD,  ETC.      401 

road  ;  no  gatherings  of  men,  no  sights  or  sounds,  diverted 
or  delayed  him,  until  he  reached  the  Widow  Freney's 
house,  and  flung  the  door  wide  open.  No  one  was  there. 
He  walked  all  round  the  house,  and  all  about  the  cove ; 
no  one  was  to  be  seen.  He  turned  towards  the  hill  again  ; 
and,  as  he  turned,  Mrs.  Freney  was  just  coming  from  the 
gorge.     He  strode  up  to  her. 

"  Who  told  this  lie  ?  "  he  asked,  as  soon  as  she  could 
hear  him. 

"  Father  Debree  ?  "  she  asked,  astonished  and  alarmed. 

"  Who  told  this  lie  of  Mrs.  Barre  ?  "  he  repeated. 

"  Is  it  a  lie,  Father  Debree  ?  "  said  she.  "  I'm  sure  it 
must  be,  your  reverence." 

"  Who  told  you  ?  "  he  asked  again. 

"  Indeed,  it  was  the  constable,  Froyne,  told  me,  Father 
Debree ;  but  I  wouldn't  wish  him  any  harm :  sure,  he 
had  good  reason — ** 

"  It's  a  LIE,  woman  !  And  you  took  it  up,  and  be- 
lieved it,  directly,  against  a  friend  and  benefactor,  like 
that  lady !  Do  you  think  that  is  what  the  true  religion 
teaches  ?  " 

His  manner  frightened  Mrs.  Freney  still  more. 

"  It's  one  o'  the  clargy  told  him,"  she  said. 

"  Whoever  told  it,  it's  a  lie !  There's  not  a  purer 
woman, — or  saint, — living, — if  she  is  not  one  of  us.  She 
never  did,  or  thought,  or  understood,  any  thing  that  was 
not  good,  in  her  life  !  I  desire  you'll  go  from  one  end  of 
the  harbor  to  the  other,  and  say  so,  and  you  may  undo 
something  of  what  you're  helped  to  do." 

So  saying,  he  left  her,  and  walked,  hurriedly,  out  of 
the  cove. 

Somewhere  in  his  way,  he  heard  himself  saluted.     It 

was  by  Mr.  Wellon,  who  asked  the  favor  of  a  few  words 

with  him. 

20 


i'-A 


,  t) 


I 


m 


I:' '' '  i 


;      I 


402 


THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


"A   renort  has   been   circulated   among  the   Roman 

Catholics  of  this — " 

"  It's  an  abominable  lie  ! "  said  Father  Debree,  inter- 
rupting.— "  I  have  contradicted  it.  I  am  going  to  right 
it. — Excuse  me." 

And  he  strode  on.     The    Parson  did  not  seek  to  stay 

him. 


THE  TWO   I'KIESTS   AND   A  THIRD. 


4or, 


CHAPTER  XLIV. 


THE    TWO    PRIESTS    AND    A    THIRD. 


FATHER  TERENCE  liad  not  recovered  from 
the  disturbance  of  tlie  night,  before  Father  De- 
bree  entered,  hot,  and  dusty,  and  agitated,  and 
occupied  all  his  attention. 

The  young  priest  wiped  his  brow,  and  walked,  once  or 
twice,  across  the  room  ;  until,  at  the  invitation  to  sit  down, 
he  turned  round,  and  stood.     He  spoke  hurriedly : — 

"  You  remember  v.  hat  passed  between  Father  Cramp- 
ton  and  myself,  the  other  day,  Father  Terence  ?  " 

"  Indeed,"  answered  the  peace-loving  old  priest,  "  I 
don't  bother  my  mind  much  with  past  things." 

"  But  those  were  no  trifles  to  be  forgotten  in  a 

moment ; — do  you  remember  his  accusations  and  his 
worse  insinuations  against  me  ?  " 

"  I  don't  remember  anny  thing  against  you,  brother," 
said  Father  Terence,  kindly. 

"  Let  me  remind  you,  if  you  please :  he  spoke  of  Mrs. 
Barre,  and  of  my  '  secret  intercourse  with  her ; '  and 
what  '  the  world  might  say  ; '  and  then  claimed  that 
'  though  he  might  be  accused  of  over-zeal  for  the  Church, 
there  was  no  charge,  of  any  other  sort,  against  his  moral 
character.      Do  you  remember,  Father  Terence  ?  " 


if 


'I 


m 


It. 


404 


THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


11*;:' 


m:n 


■■   Ml 


'm 


.:.!  1     '\i 


mr  in 


H"  i( 


is: 

t 

k 

"  I  didn't  give  much  heed  to  him ;  but  I  suppose  he 
said  it." 

"  And  would  you  believe  that  that  very  man  had  once 
sought — I  loathe  to  speak  it ! — to  drag  her  from  her 
strong,  sure  virtue  ?  and  in  the  Confessional  ?  and  that  he 
has  since  defamed  her,  and  sought  to  destroy  her  character 
among  men,  thit  never  was  else  tiian  lovely,  as  he  had 
sought  to  blot  her  name  out  of  the  Book  of  Heaven  ? — 
Would  you  believe  that  ?  " 

"  Indeed  I  would  be  sorry  to  believe  it  of  him,  or  of 
anny  priest ;  but  it  doesn't  seem  the  fair  thing  that  ye 
shouldn't  have  told  him  to  his  face,  if  ye'U  say  it  behind 
his  back  ; — he's  in  St.  John's,  tlie  day,"  said  the  open- 
hearted  Father  Terence. 

"  Very  true.  Father  Terence,  very  true ;  but  I  didn't 
know  it  until  to-day." 

"  But  d'ye  think  is  it  good,  brother,  to  be  hunting  up 
things  against  him,  even  if  they're  true,  itself,  and  even 
if  he  wronged  ye,  when  he's  got  to  answer  lor  them, 
surely,  soon  or  late  ?  " 

"  I  haven't  searched  for  them,  Father  Terence ;  they 
came  to  me  without  seeking ;  without  wishing ; — and  yet, 
considering,  not  his  wrong  to  me,  but  what  she  has  been 
to  me,  what  I  still  owe  to  her,  and  must  always  owe  to 
her,  what  she  deserves,  for  her  noble  self,  and  what  she 
might  have  expected  of  the  tender  sympathy  of  him  as  a 
minister  of  God,  and,  especially,  one  knowing,  as  he 
knows,  her  former  happy  life,  and  her  sad,  lonely  lot,  to- 
day,— and  considering,  that  to  all  her  bitter  loss  and  heavy 
trial,  this  had  been  added,  that  vile  words  or  innuendoes 
against  her  had  been  spoken — and  by  that  priest  of 
God — in  the  ears  of  those  to  whom  her  voice  had  sounded 
as  that  of  the  very  Angel  of  Mercy, — if  then,  while  I 


.tf;|.^>.-7 


THE  TWO  PRIESTS  AND  A  THIRD. 


405 


had  steeled  myself  against  her,  according  to  my  duty,  (as 
God  knows  I  have  done,  truly,)  while  I  have  never  given 
way,  before  her,  even  to  a  word,  (as  God  knows  is  true, 
though  T  confess  my  heart  has  broken, — broken,  in 
secret,)  if  I  had,  to  do  her  right,  striven  to  turn  the 
earth,  or  drain  the  sea,  would  it  have  been  too  much  ?  " 

During  this  passionate  speech,  Father  Terence,  several 
times,  caught  his  breath,  and  had  much  to  do  to  control 
the  quivering  muscles  of  his  face.  He  had  recourse  to 
his  pipe,  and  made  no  answer. 

"  Would  it  have  been  wrong  ? "  the  younger  priest 
asked  again. 

"  But  couldn't  ye  do  her  right  and  let  him  go  ?  Sure, 
I'd  stand  by  ye,  too." 

"  I  know  you  would,  good  Father  Terence ; — but  why 
'  let  him  go'^^  If  you  mean  '  dimitte  eum, — forgive  and 
suffer  him,  though  he  have  wronged  you,  or  have  meant 
you  ill,' — by  all  means !  I  cannot,  as  a  sinner,  look  for 
mercy  or  forgiveness,  if  I  show  it  not ; — but  '  let  him  go, 
if  it  be  to  persist  in  this  wrong  to  her,  to  do  new  wrong  to 
her,  or  others  ;  '  let  him  go '  to  make  his  character  and  au- 
thority a  means  of  sin  and  ruin  ;  '  let  him  go  '  to  betray 
some  thoughtless  wife,  or  simple  child,  to  sin,  and  death, 
and  hell ;  '  let  him  go  '  to  plead,  in  God's  name,  for  the 
Devil, " 

"  That's  hard  speaking,"  said  his  hearer. 

"  It  is  hard  speaking ;  how  else  should  I  speak  ?  " 

"  But  how  will  ye  stop  him  ?  "  asked  Father  O'Toole, 
holding  his  dead  pipe  in  hand,  "  if  it  was  so." 

"  He  should  be  forbidden  the  exercise  of  his  office,  and 
if  he  do  not  repent,  it  should  be  torn  from  him  !  " 

The  old  priest  asked  gently — 

"  But  what  are  i/on,  to  take  God's  judgments  that  way  ?" 


n 


i 


40G 


THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


mM/  ^ 


"  A  priest,  that  feel  my  own  unwortliiness,  but  seek  to 
feel  the  awfulness  of  the  priest's  office,  and  the  worth  and 
woe  of  souls  that  I  am  sworn  to  care  for ;  but  is  this  God's 
judgment,  except  as  all  things  are  God's  ?  Have  men 
no  part  in  it,  and  no  responsibility  ?  Are  they  not  to  act 
for  Him  ?  " 

"  Ay,  but  you  can't  do  anny  thing  to  Crampton  ;  you've 
no  power  over  him  ;  you  can't  unpriest  him." 

"  No :  but  there  are  those  wlio  can !  Let  him  be 
brought  to  the  tribunal,  and  let  the  truth  be  proved  there, 
and  let  the  bishop  deal  with  him." 

Father  Terence  shook  his  liead. 

"  No,  no ;  ye  know,  yerself,  it's  never  done, — it  can't 
be  done,"  said  he  ;  "  'twould  be  scandal." 

* "  It  can't  be  done,  Father  Terence  ! — but  there's  some 
way  of  doing  it  ?  " 

"  No,  there's  no  way ;  they  that's  over  him  must  see 
to  it." 

"  I  wish  them  to  see  (u  it ;  but  they  must  know  it,  first." 

"  There's  some  that  know  all  about  him,  then  ;  doesn't 
the  man  confess  ?  "  asked  Father  Terence,  trying  if  tlicre 
were  life  in  his  pipe. 

Father  Debree  gazed  before  him,  as  if  a  door  had  been 
opened ;  he  looked  forward,  silently,  and  then  spoke, 
without  moving  his  eyes  : — 

"  And  he  walks  free  !  and  exercises  his  priest's 

office  freely ! " 

"  But  maybe  he's  been  put  on  one  side,"  said  Father 
O'Toole ; — "  I  heard  it  said.  I  think,  he's  been  in  high 
places  ;  but  he's  put  back,  a  oit,  someway." 

"  But  forbidden  to  deal  with  souls  ? — No  !  he  has  a 
faculty,  to  confess  priests  and  every  one  ;  and  he  has  the 
whole  charge  of  these  nuns  at  the  next  door." 


!^   ■    I 


THE   TWO   PRIESTS  AND   A  THIRD. 


407 


The  elder  priest  moved  uneasily ;  perhaps  he  thought 
of  his  own  nc«flect. 

"  Indeed,  that's  true,"  he  said. 

"And  can  nothing  be  done?" 

"  You  can't  do  any  thing." 

"  But  T  could  try." 

"  No ;  ye'd  ruin  yerself,  and  do  no  good  either.  No, 
no,  man  ;  leave  it  alone." 

"  How  can  I,  knowing  what  I  do,  if  I  have  any  care 
for  truth,  or  God,  or  man  ?  " 

"  It'll  be  right,  one  day " 

"  But  in  the  mean  time,  how  many  wrongs ! — How  many 

ruins  ! — How  many  wrecks  I Is  there  no  help  for  it  ? 

Let  me  make  complaint,  and  if  nothing  comes  of  it,  at 
least  leave  the  burden  of  blame,  openly  and  fairly,  where 
it  belongs." 

"  What's  it  ye  mean  ?  " 

"  Go  to  the  bishop  and  complain  of  this  man,  and  un- 
dertake to  prove  my  charges." 

"  Now,  brother,  take  my  advice,"  said  the  old  priest, 
"  and  meddle  you  not  with  it ;  it'll  be  the  ruin  of  ye, 
totally,  an'  ye'll  never  do  anny  good  with  it.  Do  you 
your  duty,  an'  leave  him  alone." 

Father  Debree  turned  and  paced  the  room  again. 

"  Nothing  can  be  done  ! "  he  exclaimed,  coming  again, 
and  standing  as  before. 

"  Sit  ye  down  !  Sit  ye  down,  man ! "  said  Father 
Terence—"  Will  ye  not  ?  " 

Father  Debree  still  stood,  and  said : — 

"  Nothing  can  be  done  ! Then  I  must  only  confront 

this  man,  himself,  and  show  him  that  his  guilt  is  known, 
and  bring  it  home  to  his  conscience." 

"  An'  do  ye  think  will  he  heed  what  ye  say  to  him  ? 


m 


Ml 


m::h 


nwr 


Mr';  I 


u 


't: 


'i 


■V     ■         a 

mki 

li.'^'i 

1 

Uky, 

^ 

408 


THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


No,  no  ;  Crampton  is  a  deep,  hard  man  ;  he'll  never  heed 
what  ye  say  to  him.  Don't  meddle  with  him,  is  best. — 
I'm  sure  of  it." 

"I've  no  fear  of  him.  "What  I  knew  of  Crampton 
years  ago,  in  another  country,  but  shut  my  eyes  to, — what 
I  know  of  him  now, — make  him  what  the  world  would 
call  a  villain ;  and  shall  he,  in  the  Church,  find  an  im- 
punity that,  in  the  world,  would  never  be  allowed  him  ? 
Nay,  shall  new  fields  be  opened  to  him  to  ravage,  and 
new  opportunities  for  mischief  given  him?  If  Cramp- 
ton   " 

The  door  opened  and  Father  Nicholas  entered,  with  a 
flash  in  his  eye  and  a  sneer  at  his  lip. 

— "  Were  now  present,"  he  said,  taking  up  the  un- 
finished sentence,  "  would  you  dare  to  say  to  him  what- 
ever vou  have  said  of  him  in  his  absence,  loud  enoujrh 
for  me  to  hear  outside  the  house  ?  " 

"  I  thought  ye  were  in  St.  John's,"  exclaimed  Father 
Tcence,  astonished  at  the  suddenness  of  the  apparition. 

"And  so  thinking  me  at  a  safe  distance,  you  could  ven- 
ture to  make  me  the  subject  of  your  censure,  and  enter- 
tain yourself  with  this  gentleman's  practice  in  invective;" 
said  Father  Nicholas,  giving  himself  for  the  moment  a 
license  of  speech  very  unusual  with  him. 

During  this  address,  delivered  very  deliberately  and 
distinctly.  Father  Terence  held  a  book  open,  (it  happened 
to  be  upside  down,)  and  his  hand  trembled.  After 
the  last  word  he  turned  full  upon  the  speaker,  and 
said, — 

"  I'm  not  sure  that  I  understood  ye  altogether ;  but  let 
me  tell  ye  that  I'm  no  backbiter,  nor  I'm  no  brawler;  but 
it's  not  for  fear  of  anny  man,  nor  ever  was  ; "  (here  the 
old  gentleman  rose  gradually  from  his  chair,)  "  and  that 


,»,■)<■  1 


THE   TWO   PRIKSTS   AND   A  THIRD. 


409 


if  ye  exp(!('t  to  speak  liero,  sir,  I  sliall  expect  ye'll  speak 
."Ivilly.     I  lliink  y'aro  not  over  inc." 

Fallier  Nicholas  instantly  corrected  himself: — 

"  I  humbly  ask  your  pardon,  reverend  father,"  said  he, 
"  I  was  wrong ;  but  I  hope  that  the  hearing  of  my  own 
name  so  freely  used,  will  be  an  excuse  for  my  intrusion  ?" 

"  Y'are  quite  free  to  come  in,  and  it  maybe  as  well 
y'are  come,"  said  P'ather  Terence,  seating  himself  again. 
"Will  ye  sit  down,  sir?" 

"  Thank  you,  sir,  I  see  that  I'm  not  very  welcome 
liere,  and  1  shall  prefer  being  upon  a  little  ceremony,  if 
you'll  permit  me." 

"  May  I  have  leave  to  answer  his  question.  Father 
Terence  ?  "  asked  the  priest  from  Peterport,  with  a  pale 
cheek,  and  a  pale,  steady  flame  in  his  eye. 

"If  ye  must  talk,  I'll  give  my  advice,  if  ye'll  take  it  off 
me  ;  just  begin  at  a  new  place,"  said  the  elder,  with  an 
intuitive  wisdom  that  was  quite  deep,  if  it  might  avail. 
The  other,  turning  to  Father  Nicholas,  said, — 

"It's  best  to  begin  at  the  very  thing  I  have  to  say.  I 
wish  to  ask  you  whether  you  have  said  or  insinuated  any 
thing  against  the  pure  and  noble  character  of  that  lady, 
who  was  mentioned  here  by  you  the  other  day." 

"Another  criminal  examination,  without  the  ceremony 
and  expense  of  judicial  commissions  or  constables  !  As 
I  am  little  in  the  habit  of  speaking  of  ladies,  here  or  else- 
where, I  suppose  I  know  whom  you  mean  ;  but  at  the 
same  time  I  will  thank  you  to  be  explicit,  and  I  propose 
going  through  with  you  to-day." 

"  I  mean  Mrs.  Barre." 

"  Have  you  any  special  claims  to  call  me  to  account, 
if  I  had  said  any  thing  against  her  ?  I  was  not  aware  of 
any  such  relation  between  you  and  Mrs.  Barre  at  this 


.*  ^ 


»'! 


!l 


'I 


t  'i 


"i 


n 


if 


■i 


ily> 


410 


TlIK   NF.W   PRIKST. 


sli.'f 


=  ■■'■■    'i 


t  f 


moment,  or  butweon  you  and  niyself,  as  would  war- 
rant It." 

"  Yt's,  I  htwo.  Tho  peculiar  position  in  whieh  she 
stands  to  me,  I  have  no  occasion  to  speak  of.  If  she  l)e 
wron<:^ed  and  cannot  rij;lit  herself,  sh«^  lias  a  chiim  on  any 
Christiiin  man  and  gentleman  of  honor,  and  first  of  all  on 
me.  That  involves  a  relation  between  me  and  any  one 
who  wrongs  her,  and  theretbre  to  you,  tliough  you  be  an 
old(!r  priest  than  I." 

"Tiiere  seems  a  trifling  oversight  there;  the  Church 
and  her  discipline  are  ovcM'looked  apparently, — or  blown 
away ;  the  existence  of  a  tribunal  of  penitence  seems  to 
be  forgotten  ;  but  let  it  go  for  the  present.  Take  your 
own  way,  by  all  means,  only  come  out  with  all  you've 
got.     What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  I  mean  i)recisely  what  I  say,  and  I  may  say  some- 
thing more.  That  you  insulted  her,  and — if  wickedness 
could  have  approached  her,  as  it  cannot, — that  you  would 
have  sought  her  ruin,  at  the  very  moment  when  you 
were  claiming  to  know  her  pure,  innocent  thoughts,  to 
sit  in  judgment  on  them,  I  am  sure  beyond  any  question, 
and  that  you  have  just  tried  to  stain  her  reputation, 
though  I  have  not  the  same  absolute  p/oof,  yet  I  cannot 
doubt." 

A  sort  of  color  (as  much  perhaps  as  his  complexion 
was  capable  of )  came  into  Father  Nicholas's  face. 

"  You're  getting  along  rather  faster  than  the  slow  pace 
of  common  justice  too.  You're  perfectly  sure  of  my  guilt 
in  the  one  case,  and  can't  have  a  doubt  of  it  in  the  other, 
and  yet  I  don't  remember  that  you  have  ever  even  hinted 
the  thing  to  me,  who  am  the  only  person  capable  of  testi- 
fying to  the  contrary." 

"  I  never  had  the  proof  or  even  knew  the  fact  until 
to-day." 


'.^:  «■;: 


TIIK   TWO   TRIKSTS  AND    A   THIRD. 


411 


Fatlicr  Niclioliis  !)oro  liis  j)art  liko  one  who  had  a 
satisfju'tion  in  tlu^  practice  of  fence;  but  he  arjjjucd  in  a 
sliglitinj]^  and  snecrln^jf  way. 

"  For  a  like  reason  I  iiave  ha<l  no  oliance,  you  may 
rememi)er,  to  clear  or  defend  myself,  and  yet  you  believe 
in  a  moment  a;j;ainst  me.  Has  a  brotlier-j>riest  no  claims? 
A  priest's  reputation  is  said  to  be  as  tender  as  a  woman's, 
and  his  ri<,dits  are  certainly  as  <Tood.  Tlu're  are  other 
places  and  occasions  for  considerinfjf  the  propriety  and 
safety  of  an  intercourse  against  which  Father  Terence 
cautioned  you  ;  but  certainly  one  would  think  that  you 
might  kTiow  the  propriety  of  rejeetinf;  or  receiving  cau- 
tiously the  suggestions  of  a  woman's  res(?ntment." 

"  It  was  no  conviction  or  suspicion  of  a  moment,  Mr. 
Crampton !  I  had  sonu;  light  upon  your  character  years 
ago.  Do  you  think  I  have  forgotten  Clara  Wentley  and 
the  fate  of  Ur.  Wentley  of  Ross  Park  ?  " 

It  would  be  hard  to  describe  the  change  that  passed 
upon  Father  Nicholas's  fac(!.  Whether  he  became  redder 
or  more  pale,  or  both,  whether  he  quailed  for  an  instant, 
or  shook  with  instant  indignation,  it  would  have  been 
hard  to  say  from  his  looks  only. 

He  answered  without  violence, — 

— "And  still  another  charge  !     What  now  ?  " 

"  No.  That  is  not  the  business  that  I  came  about.  I 
mentioned  it  only  casually  by  way  of  illustration ;  but  it 
was  something  that  wanted  the  name  only  of  a  double 
murder :  of  a  poor  father  by  a  sudden  blow,  and  of  a 
daughter  by  a  slow,  deadly  poison  ! " 

Father  Terence  looked  from  one  to  the  other  in  amaze- 
ment, and  gave  vent  to  it  in  words : — 

"  Is  Debree  mad  ?  or  what  sort  of  rann  are  ye,  Cramp- 
ton?  or  what  does  this  mean  at  all?    I  never  knew  the 


" 

"S'Jl 

,ur>tNT 

"»' 

rm 

1 
>   1 

\     . 

'1 

i 

•v^\i 


)  f    f  >.  > 


li  f" 


'I!  m 


\'  '11 


I  ]> 


412 


THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


like,  and  I'm  a  priest  thirty  or  forty  years.  Murder! 
and  this  sin  and  that  sin  !  I  think  I'll  just  leave  the  place 
t'ye,  an'  I'll  go  an'  feed  my  ducks  and  chickens,  or  I'll 
look  in  the  chapel  a  bit." 

"  Father  Terence  I  beg  you  to  be  here ;  I'm  saying 
only  what  I  can  prove,  I  pray  you  not  to  go  away,"  said 
the  Priest  from  Peterport. 

"And  I  hope  you'll  stay,  reverend  father,"  said  the 
other  priest ;  "  we  shall  be  able  to  answer  all  three  of 
your  questions  better  by  and  by,  if  we  give  Mr.  Debree 
time  and  opportunity. — I  beg  you'll  go  on,  sir ;  I'll  keep 
my  answer  till  I've  heard  all.  Does  any  other  crime, — 
misdemeanor,  or  felony, — occur  to  you  at  this  moment,  to 
charge  me  with  ?  or  will  you  gratify  me  with  the  partic- 
ulars and  the  proof  of  this  last  little  one,  ^incidentally 
mentioned  ? ' " 

"  Of  course.  The  particulars  are  the  insinuating  your- 
self, (concealing  the  fact  of  your  being  a  Roman  Catholic 
and  a  priest,)  into  the  love  of  an  innocent  girl,  whose 
heart  dried  slowly  up  when  she  found  you  out,  and  killing 
the  father  by  the  discovery  of  your  treachery,  and  his 
child's  endless,  hopeless  wretchedness  ! — then  declaring 
that  you  had  only  sought  her  for  a  heavenly  bridegroom. 
The  evidence  is  in  all  or  any  one  of  a  hundred  people  in 
Jamaica,  pri\y  to  all  the  circumstances,  and  myself  among 
them." 

"Ah  !  now  we're  coming  to  something ;  the  privity  of 
a  hundred  persons  to  a  thing  of  this  kind,  all  absent  and 
nameless,  is  an  inconvenient  generalization ;  but  here  is 
a  witness  known  and  present.  Allow  me  the  cross-exam- 
ination of  him,  as  my  own  counsel,  borrowing  a  little 
from  my  last  night's  experience.  You  say  you  knew 
this  J  how  long  ago  was  it  ?  " 


THE  TWO   PRIESTS  AND   A  THIRD. 


413 


ity  of 
nt  and 
lere  is 
exam- 
little 
knew 


"A  little  more  than  two  years,  and  not  likely  to  be  for- 
gotten in  a  lifetime." 

"Are  you  sure  of  the  facts  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  you  know  very  well  my  opportunities  of  infor- 
mation." 

"And  now,  my  friend,  you  who  charge  me  with  all 
this  two  years  ago,  have  you  ever  told  me  what  you 
thought  and  believed  ?  or  have  you  told  any  one  else  ?  " 

"  No.     I  confess  that  I  have  buried  it  in  my  breast ! " 

"  You  did  not,  therefore,  in  all  these  two  years  think 
of  it  as  you  speak  of  it  now  ?  " 

"  I  would  not  allow  myself  to  judge  of  it,  until  a  new 
light  was  thrown  upon  it  to-day ;  everybody  else  saw  it 
so  before." 

"  Let  us  go  along  surely,  sir,  if  you  please,  and  keep 
different  things  separate ;  you  can't  answer  for  other 
people ;  but  for  yourself  you  say  that  you  did  not  see 
these  facts  or  circumstances  two  years  ago,  in  the  light  in 
which  you  see  them  now.  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  if 
you  had  seen  me  strike  a  blow,  or  heard  me  utter  a  sen- 
tence of  blasphen^y  or  ribaldry  two  years  ago,  you  would 
not  have  understood  and  judged  it  on  the  spot  ?  I  think 
you're  intelligent  enough  to  understand,  and  of  your 
sharpness  and  severity  of  judgment;  I  think  we've  had 
some  evidence  lately.  That  you  have  been  two  years  of 
a  different  opinion,  shows  that  you  now  judge  falsely.  If 
you  had  been  two  years  in  making  up  your  opinion,  it 
would  show  that  the  case  was  a  pretty  difficult  one  to 
determine." 

"  I  will  take  the  blame  of  forming  my  judgment  slowly 
and  reluctantly,  or  even  of  beiug  for  two  years  wrong,  in 
judging  favorably.  What  I  know  t(»-day  compels  me  to 
understand  what  I  would  not  or  did  not  two  years  ago. 


•IM: 


l.'V 


, ,  ( 


414 


THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


Is  it  not  every  thoughtful  and  observing  man's  expe- 
rience ?  " 

"  Now,  then,  for  your  terrific  apocalypse  of  to-day ;  for 
though  the  order  of  time  is  otherwise,  yet  here  seems  to 
be  the  hinge  of  all  your  accusation.  What's  this  about 
Mrs.  Barre  ?  That  I  tempted  her  ia  confession  ?  To 
what?" 

"  Not  '  tempted  her ; '  but,  what  is  a  very  different 
thing  as  regards  her,  though  the  same  in  you,  sought  to 
tempt  her  to  forsake  her  virtue.     Is  that  plain  enough  ?  " 

"  I'll  be  satisfied,  for  the  present.  Time,  place,  and 
circumstance  are  to  be  fixed  with  reasonable  precision ; 
how  long  ago  was  tliis  ?  and  in  what  place  ?  and ." 

"Mr.  Crampton,  I  charge  you  with  wicked  advances 
made  to  my — to  Mrs.  Barre,  in  confession ;  and  I  rest 
the  charge  upon  the  word  of  a  woman,  whom  no  tongue 
but  that  same  one  that  poisoned  holy  things,  ever  moved 
against ;  and  I  charge  you  with  slandering  her  in  the 
community  in  v/hich  she  is  now  living ;  and  I  call  upon 
you  to  retract  any  charges  or  insinuations  that  you  have 
made,  and  to  correct  them." 

If  guilt  makes  most  men  cowardly,  that  evidence  of 
guilt  did  not  appear  in  this  case.  The  man  to  whom 
these  words  had  just  been  spoken,  slowly  and  with  a  most 
determined  look  and  step  came  fci'ward,  and,  passing  be- 
tween the  spaaker  and  Father  Terence,  turned  round 
and  stood  near  the  fire-place,  where  he  could  face  the 
latter  as  well  as  the  former.  Then,  pale  to  his  very  lips, 
he  said,  in  an  even  voice, — 

"  Our  beia.g  priests  forbids  our  fighting ; — you  seem  to 
think  bandying  abusive  "words  the  next  best  thing ;  but 
have  a  care,  sir ! — even  a  priest  may  brush  an  insect  into 
nothingness,  or  trample  with  his  foot  an  adder." 


\^.y' 


THE  TWO  PRIESTS  AND   A  TfflRD. 


415 


expe- 

y;  for 

ims  to 

about 

?    To 

ifferent 
ught  to 
)ugh  ?  " 
,ce,  and 
icision ; 

• 
dvances 
1  I  rest 

tongue 
'  moved 
'  in  the 
all  upon 

ou  have 

ence  of 
o  whom 
li  a  most 
ksing  he- 
ld round 
lf:ice  the 
[ery  lips, 

iseem  to 


mg ; 


hut 


Isect  into 


Father  Ignatius  drew  himself  up,  and,  folding  his  arms, 
said : — 

"  Add  to  your  character  of  profligate  priest  and  slan- 
derer that  of  bully,  or  bravo,  will  you  ?  and  to  the  sin  of 
assaihng  innoeeuce  and  honor  add  that  of  assaulting  one 
who  speaks  in  their  defence !  " 

Father  Terence  had  sat  uneasily  for  some  time,  and 
now  he  rose. 

"  In  the  name  of  God,"  said  he,  "  I  bid  ye  stop  this. 
I'm  older  than  ye  both,  and  I  say  it's  sin  for  anny  one  to 
go  on  this  way,  let  alone  consecrated  priests."  (The 
homely  old  gentleman  looked  noble  as  he  stood  to  keep 
God's  peace.)  "  And  man,"  he  continued,  turning  to  Fa- 
ther Nicholas,  "  what  y'ave  done  before,  I  don't  know ; 
but  if  ye  have  spoken  against  this  lady,  why  d'ye  not  go 
an'  make  it  right  ?  'Sure,  if  she  was  your  enemy  itself, 
it's  not  your  place  to  do  it." 

"  She  never  did  him  any  worse  wrong  than  shaming 
or  rebuking  him  to  himself,  Father  Terence  ;  she  did 
not  even  complain  of  him  for  his  abuse  of  his  sacred 
office." 

"  It  would  have  been  rather  late  to  complain  of  injured 
or  insulted  virtue  some  years  afterward,  as  it  must  have 
been  ;  except  that  the  moral  sense  of  the  family  seems  to 
be  deliberate  in  its  motions.  She  was  wiser  than  her  cham- 
pion, too,  who  does  not  know  that  my  character  of  priest 
will  stand  me  in  some  stead  with  others ;  and  that  in  a 
case  v/^here,  of  necessity,  there  can  be  but  two  parties,  it 
would  be  generally  taken  for  granted  that  the  representa- 
tions of  one  of  them  may  be  very  mistaken  or  very  false, 
to  say  nothing  farther  ;  and  who  forgets  that  the  world 
has  eyes  in  its  head,  and  a  tongue  in  its  mouth,  and  can 
form  its  own  judgment  of  his  moral  pretensions,  with  this 


^t(^ 


TiiK  NKW  ruiKsr. 


i 


'     * 


-T- 

1 

.V. 

i  . 

'Ka^^ 

1 

|j;|: 

mm 

^g;^;;  ,,    .:  } :; 

Iti 

Kf 'ii 

Wl 

' 

^^Ul  V      'I*  11 

^H^B 

|: 

Hfeiw^ 

US 

li 

Imlv  (>^''»  '  p»M'nlii\ilv  rrlfilcd  lo  him.')  n(  Iiis  tiill,  iind 
lnn\iMi>  \\\y  hm  pooh  ih  lio  p,o(si  (o  ln^  ptwi." 

"I  sIimII  «io1  otHor  iiilo  tnu  r<Mn  t'lMMlioH  upon  llml 
poii\l."  M!\iil  I'jidiiM-  I>ol>i('(>.  "I  'hK  wlit'llior  von  will 
Ivv  lo  do  llto  lilllo  Mixl  iMnh  jii'^liri'  in  voiif  powoi-  lo  {\\\h 
\i\\\\ .  wlio  l\n^  oHoMjili  lo  l»(>!U'  ol'  Moiiow.  willioiil  llio  ml- 
(lilion  (>r  UMtloMOiN  I'd  sslmnio  "  " 

"({i\ino  ('orlirn'MlO'J  of  cliMiMclor  iiihI  loMlimoiiinh  lo 
rospoi'iMMo  lioroiit'M  i-t  ool  tpiilt*  in  \\\\  wmv  :  miil  lo  rrriill 
s\)\\\  »o(vM('l.  or  lo  coMl'Milicl.  M(M'oi(liM»i  1(»  vonr  rnncy, 
\\\\i\\  I  u\:\\  or  \\\:\\  nol  liiixo  ^w'wl  mIioiiI  llii^  or  lliiil  por- 
8on,  in  sonioll(i»i«>  loo  mnoli  lo  M-iK  ol"  n<o.  Thjil  n  poiMltn, 
HihiMlotl  !i^  iho  owo  voM  inrnlion  is.  should  MiilVor  l»»r  her 
unhMppv  Mpo>^l!nv.  i^  lo  ho  oxpoolod.  il  isi  m  piul  ol  hor 
lot,  i\nd  i^  :i  rnllihuonl  ol  iho  prophoov  'Stifwr  tfttctn 
rih'9iii'n'f,  roui<roi  onu.'  Sho  will  ho  jvionnd  tnidt'r  ihiil 
Hlono      il  will  (MM -h  hor  inli>  iho  ojnih." 

*'  Yon  will  nol  *\o  nnv  ihinji?  ^  on  will  !\ol  do  sin»plo 
jnslit'o  lo  how  Mild  spoidv  siniplo  Irnlh  ol'  hoi- F  And  do 
von  «l;\ro  lo  ImIK  ol'  iho  Ihllihnonl  ol'  piophoov.  whon  von 
!»n*  pnllinti  onl  \onr  hMnd  lo  lopplo  ihi-»  slono  ovoi\  mm 
.liidjisj  inijvhl  h.-no  spok<M».  Ol-  sh  Iho  Mi<i,li  i*rio4|  ol'  ihv' 
.Town  niijihl  \\;\\o  spoKon.  ol'  wh,'»l  lh<\v  did  lo  iho  l^>- 
do(Mnor.  h(>o;ui^o  llo  itn»o»'oolly  sniVotod  m1  Ihoir  hnndM, 
:\c^^>l^linu•  io  iho  h'Mlhoi'i  will  P  I'hon  mmj  inn-il  honr 
vour  hnt'd(M\  ;  Ml  Mnv  li^k  ol  ocnsnro  oi*  Mnspioion.  I  will 
«>ponly  oonliMdiiM  \on  in  iho  world.  MOtJ  donoinu'o  yon  in 
iho  rhnroh  !  " 

"  Now.  ihon.  \]\o  WMi"  i^i  Mh'^olnloly  doi'lMi'od."  MMid  I''m- 
thor  NioholM-^.  stnilitij^  .M^Min  ;  "  Mnd  who  do  yon  ihiidv 
>vill  ho  iho  siMincM'  \\\  il  ?  \V(»  Iimvo  no  plMoo  '\\\  iho  world, 
oxvv^pl  !»s  b«donsi»nii' <<>  <lu>  Sooio — iho  ("hnioh:  Mnd  how 
uuirh,  think    yon.  \o\\    wonld    weigh    MjvMinMl    mo    in    Iho 


ill,  iiihI 

Ml     (l)lll 

Oil    will 

to  lliisi 

llio  lul- 

liiil'j    lo 

0  rrriill 
•    rmiry, 

llMl    )M'I- 
jMMM(»ll, 

lor   li(M- 

1  t»r  Iht 
<)•   ifui'in 

lIlM-    (lull 

i»  Miiiipl"' 

Ami  <lo 

Immi  v«»ii 

ovtM-,  n» 

(     Ol'    (l»'.' 

Ilio    Ke- 

litiiiils, 

III  i|    Im'mt 

M.  I  will 

>  von   in 


:ii( 


Ml 


I    l-M- 

lliiiilv 


W  woi 


M. 


md  l\«nv 
ill    (ho 


TIIK    I  WO    nillSTH    ANIJ    A     I  IMIlh. 


117 


riiilirli.  wlil(>li  j/lvo'4  yon  your  idnrn  in  iIim  world?  [ 
(liinK  I  miiy  Miiy.  willionl  iinniodnnln  viinily,  tlml  I  mn 
worlli  Hoinollnn^  nioro  lo  ||,  lloin  yon,  iind  lliiit  (Im>  inlrrn 
of    (lie  ('linirli  would  HO  df'InniiiM'.  * 


Indi'od,  llirn.  I    don'l    I 


know  whiil  wny  y  iiio  Mf»  nnn  li 
ItoK.'r   lliiMi    liini.      I    Know    (Iml.  nOrr  m    l.il.  Iio'm   lil<(<   | 


Im»    liipJHM-    in    llip    (linu'li    ||| 


inn    «<illirr    yon    or    in«< 


II 


o 


in 


lli^lio|»  lold  incmdC  lliiil  Im'M  jnrtil  |i(uIm  ;  ntid  I  lliink 
Iio'm  Olio  lliin^r  yriMidr  Iim  sn'l  ;  iind  llinr^  Jiml.  llio  |diiin 
lovo  (or  wIiiiI'm  (rno  nnd  rinlii,"  Hiiid  I'^iilln-r  'ri'iriico. 
"  Mo  I 


d. 


oiiiM  (I.  hImIii  liko  M  woniH 

'I'lio  ollior  pricMl  MiHwi'rt'd  :•- 

•'  I  Hiiy  nollniifr  nl"  lii^  |t!iilM;  Itnl  il'^  llml  vrry  ,m«nli- 
Hionliilily  oC  lii-i  llml  iiimKcm  liiin  iiiiMrrvirrnldo  ;  lor  llin 
niMii  ol'  Mcronnl  in  llio  oni»  wlio  IiiKom  rirrmnsluncrs  hm  lin 


iUuU  llit'iii.  Mild  iiMOM  Ihoni  ii'<  llioy  iiro,  nnd 


^<ioM  on,  willi- 


onl HilliiifT  down  lo  I'll!  liiM  liniror  in  liiM  «>yo,  lor  s«mim>- 
fliinn  lio  lltinkM  isi  wron^r.  I  ihink  yon  liiid  Ixllrr  nol, 
nioddlo  wilh  iiio,  |M«ilin|»M,"  ho  ndded,  lnrnin;T  |o  l-'allicr 
Doliroo.  willi  n  sniilo. 

"  ITm  oiiMy  HO(«n,  llio  diiy,  llml  y'nrr  n.  Iinrd  niiin,  Vn- 
llior  ('•!iiii|tlon."  snid  l''iillior  'rncin'o;  "  nn'  I  «|on'l  sny 
lor  woiN(>:  Itnl  il'  yo  inniti  mniy  niiscliirC  lo  /lim,  yo 
iiiiimI  mind  iIimI  Tin  wilii  liini  ;  find,  il'  I'm  nol  niniMo 
nnd  (piii'K,  yo'll  Iind  mo  llml.  Iiouvy  llml  I'll  nol,  Im>  oiiMy 
liOod  onl  ol'  y<"r  w.'iy." 

'Plio  Hiroiiir  lil'o  iind  oxciloinrnl  of  llio  scono  luid  not 
Id)  lli(>  old   rri(*Ml  nnloncliod.      l<'n,llior  I  )tlnr('  s.-iid  :    - 

"  l''or  mysiir.  |(>|  liim  do  wliiil  lii<  will;  nnd  in  llio 
OMiiso  of  Iho  widow,  (iod  is  n  pnily." 

"ScMrc(>ly  w  willow,  I  should  Ihink,"  sjiid  l^'ulhcr  Nicli- 
oliis,  moving  lo  no. 

"  Coiii<>,  man,"  said  IIiiMild    IVriesI,  lo   Kalhor   Dcbrci^, 

27 


I     V"-- 


-(, 


tn 


\ 


■'    Vi 


V.i 
til 


'    ) 


I  f 


<'  1  J 


if     t' 


418 


THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


"  if  y'are  through,  as  I  think  y'are,  come,  and  let's  walk 
through  the  grounds  a  bit." 

As  they  walked  silently,  the  younger  priest  abruptly 
turned  to  his  kindly  companion  and  said : — 

"  I  must  be  your  deacon  to-morrow.  Father  Terence ;  I 
can't  say  mass,  up  there." 

"  D'ye  feel  that  bad  ?  Ye  mustn't  take  on  that  way, 
man,"  answered  the  old  Priest. 

"  I  really  can't  do  it ;  there  are  more  things  than  one 
upon  my  mind,"  answered  Father  Debree. 

"  Ye  shall  just  stay  and  help  me,  then,"  said  the  elder ; 
"  and  let  Crampton  go,  if  he  likes." 


ii'« 


QUITE  ANOTHER  SCENE. 


419 


CHAPTER   XLV. 


QUITE   ANOTHER   SCENE. 


HINGS  strange  and  ill-matched  crowd  each 
other ;  the  interview  of  the  priests  was  fol- 
lowed by  another,  very  unlike. 

After  the  examination,  Mr.  Bangs  had  lingered,  and 
seemed  loth  to  go ;  and  Father  Terence  invited  him  to 
pass  the  night  where  he  was.  This,  however,  he  de- 
clined. Yet  he  staid.  At  last,  he  said  "  he  guessed 
he'd  look  in  a  spell  to-morrow,"  and  departed. 

"  Didn't  want  to  go  'thout  takin'  leave.  Father  O'Toole," 
he  said,  as  he  presented  himself  betimes  on  the  next  day. 

"An'  where's  this  y'are  going,  then?"  inquired  the 
Priest,  surprised  at  this  notice  of  departure.  (Father 
Terence  was  very  grave.) 

"  Wall,  I  guess  I'll  be  goin'  over  here  to  Peterport 
agin,  'n'  see  what  I  can  do  for  'em,"  answered  the  Ameri- 
can. 

"  An'  what's  the  matter  at  Peterport  ?  " 

"  They  want  a  little  teachin',  all  round  Noofunland, 
'pon  a  good  many  things.  They'd  all  be  rubbed  into 
grease  'n  a  minute  'r  two,  'n  the  States,  'f  they  wa'n't  a 
little  spryer  about  it." 

"  An'  what  would  rub  them  into  grease,  then  ?  " 

"  Why,  every  body  'd  be  tumblin'  over  'em." 


420 


THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


ii'   i« 


!*!  I     ' 


.1   . 


Bi'    ' '       in 


[]'  •   I' 


-1  ! 


N  !! 


"  But  don'i;  they  do  their  work  well  ?  an'  aren't  they 
good  people  ?  "  ". 

"  They  are  good  people,  and  kind  people,  fact ;  b't 
they're  pleggily  'm posed  upon." 

"  It's  the  difference  o'  government,  ye  mean ;  but  it*s 
not  a  bad  government  we  have,"  said  the  Priest,  who  was 
an  Irishman  of  an  old  kind. 

"  Wa'n't  speakin'  o'  that,  'xac'ly.  I'll  tell  ye,  Father 
O'Toole, — I  ain't  a  democrat,  an'  so  I  don't  like  slavery." 

The  Priest,  who  knew  nothing  of  parties  in  America, 
and,  from  the  word  democrat,  understood  one  who  was  in 
favor  of  democracy,  might  have  been  edified  at  this 
avowal;  but  how  a  democrat  should  like  slavery,  and 
what  the  whole  thing  had  to  do  with  Newfoundland,  was 
not  clear. 

"  I  mean  I  don't  b'long  t'  the  Democratic  party,  's  the' 
call  it,  where  they  have  t'  learn  t'  blackguard,  'n'  abuse 
niggers,  b'fore  they  c'n  take  the  stump  " 

"  Is  it  stumps  they've  to  take,  in  Amerikya  ? "  asked 
Father  O'Toole,  smiling.  "  Indeed,  I  think  they  must  be 
poor,  then,  mostly,  for  it's  not  manny  o'  them  one  man 
would  take." 

"  Why,  there  ain't  a  poor  man  'n  the  whole  concern, 
'thout  it's  the  Paddi pedygogues." 

"  Is  it  that  bad  a  place  for  the  schoolmasters,  then  ?  I 
often  hard  '  the  schoolmaster  was  abroad ; '  an'  maybe  it's 
too  manny  o'  them's  abroad." 

"  Let  'em  come  ;  only  educate  'n'  'nlighten  'em,  I  say." 

"Are  the  people  so  larrn'd,  the  schoolmasters  are  not 
ayqual  to  them  ?  That's  a  quare  case :  it's  the  masters 
teach,  mostly,  I  think,"  said  Father  Terence,  who  had 
heard  of  strange  countries ;  but  perhaps  had  never  had  a 
chance  at  information  from  a  native  of  one  before.    "  And 


!''i: 


QUITE  ANOTHER   SCENE. 


421 


't  they 

ct;  b't 

but  it's 
ho  was 


Father 
avery.'* 
.merica, 
was  in 
at  this 
sry,  and 
md,  was 


y,  's  the* 
n'  abuse 


"  asked 
must  be 
jne  man 

concern, 

hen?     I 
laybe  it's 

,  I  say." 
are  not 
masters 
who  had 
er  had  a 
"And 


they've  not  the  clergy,  ayther,  to  be  the  soul  an'  centre 
of  it,  an'  take  the  lead  ?  " 

"  Guess  there  ain't  such  a  system  o'  public  schools  'n 
the  wide  world ;  why,  ol'  President  John  Quincy  's  edu- 
cated at  'em ;  'n'  so  was  your  bishop,  there,  Cheveroo,  't 
was  made  a  Card'nal,  or  what  not,  out 't  Bordo,  'n  France  ;* 
but 's  I  was  sayin',  when  we  got  a  talkin'  'bout  common 
schools,  I  guess  folks  'n  Noofundland  might  be  'bout's 
good  'n'  happy,  'n'  a  leetle  mite  better  off.  Why,  there 
were  fishermen  down  't  Marblehead  'n'  Gloucester,  'n* 
all  'long  there,  b'fore  ever  Noofundland  's  heard  of, — *s 
goin'  to  say, — 'n'  ye  don't  ketch  them  a  sett  in'  down  'n  the 
chimney-corner,  t'  keep  the  fire  agoin'  all  winter,  'n'  when 
the'  ain't  out  fishin' ;  the'  make  shoes,  the  whole  boodle 
of  'em,  jes'  's  tight  *s  they  c'n  stretch.  Merchants  can't 
make  slaves  of  'em  'n  that  country  *s  the'  do  here." 

"An'  how  would  the  planters  make  shoes  ?  "  asked  the 
Priest. 

"  I'll  take  hold  'n'  learn  *em,  I  guess,"  said  the  Ameri- 
can. 

"  Do  ye  know  how  to  make  shoes,  Mr.  Bangs  ?  " 

"  Looked  into  it,  some,  *n  I's  a  shaver ;  b't  'bout  that 
mirycle.  Father  O'Toole,"  continued  Mr.  Bangs,  "  wanted 
to  say,  I  guess  we  better  not  say  any  thing  'bout  it,  f '  fear 
the'  may  be  a  mistake." 

"  Well,  if  there's  a  mistake,  we're  both  in  the  one  box," 
said  Father  Terence,  "  an'  if  they  laugh  at  you,  they'll 
laugh  at  me.  We  might  just  wait  a  bit,  maybe,  and  see 
what  comes  of  it." 

"  Wall,  I  guess  I  wouldn't  make  much  of  it,  'f  I's  you ; 
I  heard  o'  somebody  havin'  my  magic  lantern,  round  " 

"  Is  there  magic  in  it,  then  ?    Indeed  I  won't  have  anny 
*  Chevereux,  Archbishop  of  Bordeaux,  and  cardinal. 


1( 


iv 


''    >v 


422 


THE  NEW  PRIKST. 


f  m  m- 


thing  to  do  with  it,  little  or  much.  It's  the  devil  does  it," 
said  the  Priest. 

"  Wall,  I  wouldn't  'xac'ly  go  'n'  lay  it  t*  the  devil,  either. 
Don't  s'pose  ye  ever  saw  one  o'  those  lanterns ;  't's  a 
k'nd  of  a  thing  't  shows  piechers  on  a  wall.  'T  mai/  ha' 
ben  that ;  I  only  make  the  suggestion." 

"But  how  would  he  show  you  and  meself,  Mr. 
Bangs  ?  " 

"  Does  'dmit  o'  question ;  b't  he  might  have  had  'em 
painted  " 

At  this  moment  a  knock  was  heard  at  the  door,  and  a 
person  entered  with  a  low  obeisance  to  Father  Terence, 
and  a  look  of  inquiry  at  Mr.  Bangs. 

"  Good  morning,  Reverend  Father,"  said  he.  "  I  learn 
that  something  supernatural  has  occurred  here  during  the 
late  painful  proceedings;  and  that  the  Holy  Queen  of 
Heaven  has  exhibited  her  power  in  the  Church  when 
assailed  by  her  enemies." 

Father  Terence  looked  rather  awkwardly  towards  Mr. 
Bangs,  and  then  said,  "  It's  the  editor  of  the  Catholic 
paper,  Mr.  Bangs." 

"  I  think  I  heard  that  name  in  the  same  connection," 
said  the  editor.  "  Hadn't  this  gentleman  some  hand  in 
it?" 

"  Indeed  he  was  there ;  but  we're  thinking  there  may 
be  some  mistake." 

"  Well,  Reverend  Father,  as  you  were  both  present,  if 
you'll  be  kind  enough  just  to  furnish  me  with  the  facts,  as 
they  occurred,  that  is,  after  all,  you  know,  the  only  way 
of  judging.  If  they  sustain  the  opinion,  there  it  is  ;  if 
not,  why,  it  falls." 

"  Indeed,  that  can  do  no  harm,  anny  way  ;  will  ye  tell 
him  the  facts,  Mr.  Bangs,  if  ye  please  ?  " 


l^UITE  ANOTHER  SCENE. 


423 


2S  it," 


jither. 
't's  a 
ay  ha' 

■,  Mr. 

id  'em 

and  a 
erence, 

I  learn 
•ing  the 
leen  of 
h  when 

rds  Mr. 

atholic 

[ection," 
land  m 

re  may 

[sent,  if 
tiiets,  as 
ily  way 
is;  if 


Mr.  Bangs  said  he  "  guessed  they  m't  's  well  hold  on, 
Tr  a  spell ; "  but  the  editor  was  of  opinion  that  the  best 
time  to  get  at  facts  was  imnKMliately  after  their  occur- 
rence, while  the  recollection  was  fresh,  and  before  con- 
fusions had  arisen. 

"  Wall,  if  ye  only  want  what  'curred,  I'll  give  it  t'  ye, 
's  Father  O'Toole  says  so."  He  then  proceeded  to  detail 
the  facts,  and  the  editor  carefully  made  a  note  of  them. 
This  being  done,  the  literary  gentleman  read  his  sketch 
of  an  intended  article  in  his  journal,  which,  beginning 
with  stating  that  "  Protestantism  was  systematized  unbe- 
lief, and  that  the  Divine  Presence  in  the  Church  had  never 
left  itself  without  miraculous  witness,"  proceeded  in  an 
elegant  and  glowing  version  of  the  "  statement  made  by 
an  eye-witness,  an  intelligent  American  merchant,  and 
not  yet  a  Catholic,"  and  concluded  with  a  loyal  assurance 
that  "  we  (the  editor)  reserve  our  final  and  full  judgment 
until  it  has  been  pronounced  upon  by  the  authorities  of 
the  Church." 

"  If  you're  not  a  Catholic  after  seeing  that " said 

the  editor. 


-"  You  ruther  guess  I  never  shall  be  ?     Wall,- 


>> 


"  Now  will  you  be  so  kind  as  to  certify  that  you  wit- 
nessed this  sight,  Reverend  Father  Terence  ?  " 

The  A'orthy  Priest  was  a  great  while  about  it,  and 
changed  his  expressions  a  good  many  times,  but  at  last 
produced  the  following : — 

"  I  do  hereby  certify  that  ah  the  above  was  seen  by 


me. 


» 


ye 


tell 


"'Guess  I'd  put  on,  'not  saying  how  'twas  done,'  'f  I 
was  you,  Father  O'Toole,"  urged  Mr.  Bangs ;  and  so  he 
did. 

The  "American  merchant "  then  certified  also  that  "  he 


m 


;«,:  IP 


i-'i 


I  II 


I; 


ij  (I     if 

If  'I  *• 


[■'  'I 


421 


TlIK  NKW  riMKsr. 


i; 


liMpix'Pod  to  ho  Idokinj;  on,  and  saw  tlio  si^ht  in  tho 
chapel ;  liut  should  not  like  to  say  how  it  waM  done." 

Thf  tMlitor  thanked  the  Father  and  INIr.  liangs,  and 
dej)iirte<l  with  his  marvellous  hu«l;x<-t' 

lie  had  scarcely  closed  \\io-  door,  when  a  request  eamo 
to  tlw;  IJeverend  Father  Terence  to  allow  the  nuns  to 
watch  and  say  tluur  (h'votions  belbre,  thi;  niiracuh)ua  pic- 
ture. 

The  door  havin*^  closed  apjain,  Mr.  lianpjs  said, — 

"  'Guess  1  in's'  be  -^oin',  Father  O'Toole  : — I  think  tho 
play's  becfun." 

"  Ycr  name  '11  be  famous  from  this  out,  I'm  thinkin*, 
Mr.  Hangs,"  said  the  I'riest ; — "  but  what's  this  about  the 
lantern  ?  "  he  added,  looking  confused. — "  When  will  ye 
be  coming  for  instruction,  then?" 

"  Why,  my  mind  's  got  ruther  d'atracted ;  guess  I  wun't 
go  on  'th  it  jest  now.  Ye're  welcome  to  those  candles  f'r 
the  ehap-il.  Father  O'Toole ;  'n*  I'm  thankful  t'  ye,  I'm 
sure.     Wish  you  good-day  !  " 

So  the  American  turned  his  back  upon  conversion. 

Father  O'Toole  was  really  grieved.  lie  begged  his 
departing  disciple  "  not  to  forget  what  he  had  learned, 
however,  and  to  say  a  good  word  for  Catholics." 

Mr.  Bangs  assured  him  "  there  was  one  of  *em  any 
how,  should  always  have  his  good  word";  and  shaking 
hands  heartily,  went  his  way,  holding  the  breast  of  his 
coat  with  one  hand  and  swinging  the  other. 

The  Priest  called  him  back. 

"  I'm  afraid,"  said  he,  "  the  worrld  took  too  strong  a 
hold  of  ye.     Take  care  it  doesn't  swallow  ye." 

"  'T'll  have  t'  come  b'hind  me,  I  guess,  an'  take  rae  *n 
I've  got  the  cramp  'n  my  stomuch,"  said  Mr.  Bangs. 

"  Ye  mind  the  widdah  in  the  Gospel  ?  She  was  troubled 


in 


tho 


\rrn.  and 

st  canu^ 
lUinH  to 


QUITE  ANOTIIKU  SCKNE. 


425 


about  tnjiny  tliiuf;^*,  an'  'twas  but  the  ono  piece  of  silver 


was  want  111";. 


With  lliis  rather  incorroct  citation,  but  f^'ood  religion, 
tlu;  kind  I'riust  dismissed  the  object  of  liis  labors  and 
Bolieitude. 


'■}  ■  iS 


linlc  tho 


thinkin', 
ibout  the 
I  will  ye 

s  I  wun't 
iindles  f'r 
t'  ye,  I'm 

sion. 
orged  his 
learned. 


no 


'em  any 

shaking 

ist  of  his 


fii'l 


strong  a 

e  me  'n 

igs. 

troubled 


!■   ij 


42G 


THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


f^\:' 


!  «  ;■ 


(,'     ,   ,-  t 


I ;  m 


CHAPTER  XLVI. 

FATHER   DEBREE's    WALK    FROM   BAY-HARBOR. 

lioHE  Sunday  and  its  occupations  passed,  at  Bay- 
■  Harbor.  Father  Dcbree  was  absent-minded,  and 
looked  anxious  ;  and  the  old  priest  left  hira  much 
to  himself;  only  showing,  when  he  might,  some  mark  of 
fatht.'ly  kindness.  On  Monday  the  younger  walked 
towards  Peterport,  pale  and  worn. 

Miss  Dare,  coming  back  from  an  early  ride,  drew  up, 
as  she  passed,  to  salute  him  ;  but  got  no  otb'jr  answer 
C  >n  by  his  lifted  hat,  and  a  sad  look  of  abstraction.  A 
moment  after,  the  sight  and  sound  of  tlie  fair  girl  was 
lost  in  hiiii  as  wholly  as  the  sudden  summer's  brook  is 
taken  into  and  lost  sight  of  in  the  deep,  dark-rolling 
river ;  if  one  might  judge  by  the  eye. 

The  pretty  road,  along  which  in  other  days  he  had 
gone,  observing,  Father  Debree  was  walking  on,  absorbed 
in  thought.  The  little  beach,  between  the  roadway  and 
the  sea^  received  its  long  line  of  rippling  waves  and  gave 
them  back,  in  vain,  for  him.  He  turned  away  to  the 
sweet  little  valley,  on  the  landward  side,  where  a  lone 
tree  or  two,  an  uneven  bank  to  the  right  hand,  a  winding 
little  plain,  green  grass,  and  that  humming  silence  which 
even  here,  so  near  this  boach,  can  be  felt,  would  draw  the 
glance  and  the  foot,  too,  of  one  who  loves  fair  things  and 


FATHER   DEBREE'S  WALK  FilOM  BAY-HARBOR.  427 


rinding 
which 
ivv  the 

lirs  and 


stillness  and  is  not  hurried.  This  was  the  pretty  place 
of  which  lie  had  spoken  in  his  first  conversation  with 
Mr.  Wellon,  As  if  he  sought  the  beauiy  and  the  still- 
ness, and  yet,  as  if  he  saw  and  felt  them  not,  he  turned 
aside  and  walked  among  them ;  not  like  a  man  without  a 
purpose,  but  like  one  whose  object  was  not  tliere. 

There  stood  a  little  knoll  out  from  the  bank  at  the 
right  of  the  narrow  meadow,  and  at  its  foot  and  on  its 
side,  grew  a  clump  of  bushes,  behind  which,  on  the  inner 
side,  was  a  square-edged  and  flat-sided  rock.  On  the 
smooth  sward,  with  his  brow  against  the  rock.  Father 
Debree  was  kneeling,  where  the  bushes  screened  him 
from  the  road. 

Absorbed  as  he  was,  and  separated  from  all  other 
things  and  beings,  (unless  in  thought  he  called  them  up,) 
almost  as  entirely  as  if  he  were  within  the  earthen 
nound,  another  separation  was  about  him,  not  for  a 
moment  but  for  life  ;  one  that  cut  off  from  wife  and 
child  and  friend.  Such  a  man,  taken  from  his  office  and 
its  relations,  was,  at  once,  lonely ;  alone,  of  friends,  in  all 
the  world.  He  might  have  enem>:.s  enough.  Indeed 
let  such  an  one  be  struggling  with  questions  of  faith,  and 
friends  are  gone.  There  is  no  sympathy  among  his 
brother-priests  or  fellow-religionists  for  striving  in  the 
spirit,  wrestling  through  doubts  and  questions,  bringing 
them  to  proof  of  Holy  Writ  and  human  reason,  in  the 
court  of  one's  own  conscience. 

Father  Terence  had  a  kindly  heart,  beyond  his  creed : 
what  other,  here  ? 

A  touch  of  life  upon  his  hand  startled  him.  In  such 
a  case  how  suddenly  the  roused  body  summons  back  the 
mind  to  consciousness  to  counsel  it. 

He  started  from  the  earth,  and  it  was  a  moment  before 


:li 


I"  I 


l*'li 

'I 

1 

m  • 

:i 

it 

11 

1 

i^ 

4 

ill 

; 

mI\J 

i 

i 

428 


THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


m  'i 


1      !i    ! 


!i    ^' 


•'    J 


i        'I 


I'       * 


15'il       I'M  > 


'      (, 


he  saw  clearly,  and  then  he  saw  not  a  reptile ;  not  a  foul 
beast ;  not  an  enemy  ;  not  the  friendly  Father  Terence  ; 
but  little  Mary  Barre. 

At  first  he  held  the  tiny  hand  that  had  been  thrust  up 
into  his,  in  silence,  looking  on  the  child,  who,  having 
thus  established  a  communication  with  him,  stood  partly 
abashed  and  blushing,  with  her  back  towards  him,  and 
her  little  foot  sliding  hither  and  thither  upon  the  grass. 
Her  right  hand  held  her  apron  gathered  up,  holding  some 
burden  brought  from  her  walk  u[)on  the  beach  or  meadow. 
A  man  may  take  a  child  into  his  confidence,  when  he 
would  shun  the  fellowship  of  men ;  and  so  it  is  ordained 
of  God.  A  child  can  often  bring  more  good  to  us ;  for 
what  men  want,  when  they  are  in  perplexity  or  distress, 
is  to  be  brought  back,  without  argument,  to  first  prin- 
ciples ;  to  simple  thoughts  and  feelings. 

At  such  times  we  look  back  toward  our  own  happy 
childhood,  instinctively ;  at  such  times,  we  welcome 
children. 

So  Father  Debree,  the  thoughtful  and  strong-thinking 
man,  stood  with  the  pretty  innocent,  and,  for  a  while, 
looked  on  her  silently ;  but  he  groaned. 

"Ah!  child,"  said  he,  at  length,  "you've  found 
me?" 

"  Yes,  I  knew  where  you  were,"  said  she,  "  didn't  you 
want  me  to  find  you  ?  " 

''  No ;  not  now,  my  little  girl,"  he  answered ;  but  he 
did  not  send  her  away,  and  soon,  with  a  long,  deep  sigh, 
lifted  her  up  and  kissed  her. 

He  did  not  seem  to  h.ive  thought  of  the  strangeness 
of  the  child's  being  there,  unless  she  were  under  some 
one's  care  so  far  from  home ;  but  now,  as  if  it  had  just 
occurred  to  him,  he  asked  her,  trying  to  use  a  gay  tone 


,i/! 


t  a  foul 
erence ; 

rust  up 
having 
i  partly 
lim,  and 
le  grass. 
n2  some 
neadovv. 
vhen  he 
)rdained 
us ;  for 
distress, 
rst  prin- 

n  happy 
welcome 

thinking 
a  while, 

found 

idn't  you 

but  he 
icp  sigh, 

angeness 
ler  some 
had  just 
gay  tone 


FATHER  DEBREE'S   WALK  FROM   BAY-HARBOR.  429 


m 


sayin 
m  it, — 


2  it,  but  failing  in  the  trial,  for  his  voice  broke 


woman 


handkerchief, 


«  Where  is  1 
time?" 

The  little  girl  did  not,  apparently,  understand  his 
reference  to  their  former  meeting  on  the  Backside, — per- 
haps his  memory  had  mistaken  the  color  or  the  article  of 
dress ;  but  while  she  stood  and  said  nothing,  there  ap- 
peared suddenly  from  the  other  side  of  the  thicket,  a  lady, 
who  answered  the  question,  saying 

"  Her  usual  guardian  wears  black ; "  in  the  softest 
voice  that  could  be ;  and  stood  before  him  in  deep  widow's 
mourning. 

This  time  Father  Debree  started  backward,  and,  as  he 
moved,  left  the  child  standing  in  the  midst  between 
them,  in  anxious  ?,5tonishment,  but  holding  up  her  little 
treasure. 

'*  Are  you  afraid  of  me,  when  we  meet  out  of  the  Con- 
fessional ?  "  the  lady  asked. 

He  stood  upright  and  silent,  looking  upon  her,  sadly 
rather  than  severely  or  even  as  one  surprised ;  but  it 
was  only  for  a  moment,  and  then  with  a  hasty  move- 
ment, he  turned  his  face  away — it  may  have  been  to 
gather  strength. 

"  Is  not  the  time  come,  yet  ?  "  she  said,  in  a  voice  that 
seemed  to  say  that  Time  was  coming  and  going,  and  it 
would  not  do  to  let  the  right  time  go  by.  She  seemed  to 
be  making  the  utmost  effort  not  to  give  way. 

"  What  time  ?  "  asked  Father  Debree,  in  a  gentle,  sad 
voice,  still  looking  away  from  her. 

"  The  time  to  speak  to  me  as  one  that  has  an  interest 
in  you  and  cares  for  you ;  and  to  let  me  speak  to  you,  as 
one  that  you  care  for  and  feel  an  interest  in." 


■f  '  ',!',  ■: 


*('''  il* 


Jill  .-■  1 


430 


THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


1 

■   , 

1 

J'^ 

"^ 

) 

1 

i 

M 

! 

1 
Hi 

1  J 

Her  voice  was  just  so  near  to  breaking,  and,  at  the 
same  time,  so  timid,  as  to  be  exquisitely  moving ;  just 
such  an  one  as  is  most  hard  to  be  resisted. 

He  turned  again  toward  her  and  answered : — 

"  For  such  an  interest  as  belongs  to  a  Roman  Catholic 
priest " 

"  But  no  more,  yet  ? "  she  asked,  more  timidly  and 
more  brokenly  than  before  ;  perhaps  more  movingly. 

"  No  !  there  cannot  be  more  ! "  he  said,  "  I  must  work 
out  my  own  work,  alone."  , 

She  put  her  two  hands  silently  before  her  face  ;  no 
sound  escaped  her  lips. 

The  child  ran  to  her  and  lifted  up  one  little  hand  to 
the  lady's  bended  arm,  and  leaned  the  head  against  her, 
looking  toward  him  wonderingly. 

"  It  is  a  hard  thing,"  continued  he,  "  but  I  cannot  help 
it." 

At  these  words  she  took  her  hands  from  her  face,  on 
which  were  the  wet  traces  of  silent  tears,  and  some  of  her 
black  hairs  taken  in  them,  and  with  the  beautiful  look  of 
earnest  truth,  said  : — 

"  No !  that  is  not  so  ;  you  mean  that  you  choose  that 
the  necessity  shall  exist:  it  is,  because  yo.i  make  it" 

"  You  ought  to  say,  I  have  made  it,"  answered  he, 
most  sadly;  "but  being  made,  it  is.  It  was  made  long 
ago." 

"  Ah  !  but  only  God's  Will  is  a  law  that  cannot  change. 
Your  will  stands  only  as  long  as  you  hold  it  up ;  and 
when  it  is  against  the  right,  it  ought  to  go  down." 

"  I  know  it ;  I  know  it ;  "  he  answered,  "  none  knows 
it  better  than  I,  but  a  man  may  not  at  a  moment  be  able 
to  disentangle  himself  of  the  consequences  of  his  own  act, 
and  I  am  not." 


at  the 

:;  j'lst 


athoHc 


ly  and 
t  work 


ce  ;  no 

tiand  to 
ist  her, 

ot  help 

face,  on 
3  of  her 
look  of 

)se  that 
t" 

|red  he, 
e  long 

Ichange. 
|p ;  and 

knows 
)e  able 
|wn  act, 


FATHER   DEBREE'S   WALK  FROM  BAY-HARBOR.  431 

"  And  have  you  rid  yourself  of  all  obligations  but 
those  of  that  priesthood?"  she  said  more  strongly  than 
before,  as  if  she  knew  just  the  weight  of  the  weapon  that 
she  was  using. 

"  No,  indeed ! "  said  he,  still  sadly.  "  I  never  felt 
more  strongly,  that  they  must  all  be  discharged ;  but  each 
must  have  its  time  ;  the  highest  first."  No  one  could 
mistake,  for  a  moment,  the  sorrowful  firmness  with  which 
he  insisted,  for  want  of  feeling;  a  woman  with  her  nice 
sense  and  quick  sympathy,  could,  least  of  all,  mistake. 

"  Have  what  you  call  the  higher  a  right  before  the 
earlier  ?  " 

"  You  mistake  me  ! "  he  answered  in  the  same  sad  way ; 
"  I  mean  that  the  soul  must  save  its  own  life,  before  any 
thing;  that  when  it  is  struggling  through  the  blinding 
billows  and  land  is  yet  far,  it  must  give  all  its  strength  to 
that  one  single  thing ;  it  must  struggle  to  the  land.  To 
undo  wrong  is  the  first  and  nearest  way  of  doing 
right." 

When  a  man  cries  out  of  the  Deep  of  his  strong  na- 
ture, the  voice  is  a  more  moving  one  than  that  of  woman. 
His  was  not  broken,  but  it  came  from  within  his  pale 
worn  face  and  mournful  eye,  and  told  what  was  going' on 
there.  There  was  nothing  in  it  like  a  pleading  for  pity ; 
there  was  nothing  in  it  like  a  vaunt  of  battling-out,  all 
alone ;  it  was  the  calm  voice  of  a  great,  brave  soul  in  ex- 
tremity. She  answered  it  as  such,  and  answered  like  a 
woman. 

"  You  are  struggling,  then  ?  "  she  exclaimed,  and  cast 
her  eyes  towards  Heaven,  and  held  up  thither  her  clasped 
hands,  while  tears  ran  down  her  cheeks.  "  Are  you  ? 
And  may  no  one  share  the  siruggle  with  you  ?  May  no 
one  be   at   your  side  ? "    she  asked,  at  length,   turning 


n; 


ibfl 


■111  I 


''i|. 

'>'! 


432 


THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


a,'?' 


!•! 


m  ;i 


•1:^:;-' 


mm\n. 


her  weeping  eyes  toward  him  and  holding  out  toward  him 
her  clasped  hands. 

"  No !  it  cannot  be !  It  is  mi/  struggle,  and  mine 
only  ;  I  must  finish  it  alone.  I  have  no  right  to  syra- 
})athy  ;  and,  while  I  wear  this  character  of  a  Roman 
priest,  will  not  seek  comfort  where  such  a  priest  may  not 
look  for  it.  Nor  do  I  need  human  comfort.  I  feel  my- 
fcelf  borne  up  and  on ;  and  so  it  must  be." 

There  was  something  indescribably  grand  in  the  mourn- 
ful calmness  w'tlh  which  he  spoke;  but  there  was  some- 
thing, also,  touching  to  the  very  heart ;  and  of  such  a 
woman  as  this,  who  evidently  felt  the  tenderest  and 
strongest  interest  in  him.  As  he  spoke,  his  eyes  looked 
far  forth  as  if  they  could  see  the  far-off  and  deep-heaving 
ocean,  though  no  eye  could  see  it  from  that  spot. 

So  there  was  a  great  gulf  between  them  still.  How- 
ever her  heart  might  yearn  toward  him,  they  were  sepa- 
rate. But  a  woman's  heart  never  loses  hope,  nor  counts 
any  thing  impossible  that  it  needs  ;  and  she  pleaded  in  a 
woman's  way  : — 

"  I  do  not  fear  for  the  end,"  she  said  ;  "  No,  no, — if  the 
work  be  what  I  hope  and  think  !  and  I  know  you  will  not 
need  nor  wish  human  help. — But  have  you  no  regard  for 
my  suffering  ?  "  Immediately  she  cried,  "  No,  I  cannot 
feign ;  that  argument  was  only  forced,  and  you  would  not 
take  it  in  earnest.  Yet  you  are  not  right.  Will  you 
still  put  off  my  claim  to  do  my  duty,  as  you  insist  on 
doing  yours  ?  " 

"  When  I  cease  to  be  a  Roman  Catholic  pri(?st, — when 
I  am  thrust  out  from  the  Roman  Catholic  Church," — he 
began  ;  (and  these  were  heavy  things,  and  he  said  them 
slowly,  stopping  there  and  leaving  the  sentence  begun, 
but  not  ended.)     She  looked  at  him,  and  he  had  his  eyes 


ird  bim 

i  mine 
to  syra- 
lloman 
nay  not 
i3el  my- 

I  mourn- 
3  some- 
such  a 
•est  and 
3  looked 
-heaving 

.  How- 
ire  sepa- 
)r  counts 
ided  in  a 

), — if  the 
1  will  not 
2gard  for 
I  cannot 
^'ould  not 
^Vill  you 
insist  on 

t, — when 
ch,"— he 
aid  them 
;e  begun, 
his  eyes 


FATHER  DEBRKE'S  WALK  FROM  BAY-nARBOR.  433 

still  turned  towards  the  far-off,  de(?p-heaving  ocean,  that 
was  beyond  the  reach  of  tlie  eye's  glance. 

She  had  not  clianged  her  })osture,  exce[)t  that  she  had 
drawn  up  her  clasped  hands  and  nested  her  face  upon 
them,  while  traces  of  tears  lingered  in  her  eyes,  and  were 
not  dried  off  from  her  cheeks.  She  did  not  break  the 
stillness  he  had  h^ft.  The  child  was  gazing  up  into  her 
face.  Tlie  stillness  was  deep  indeed.  The  sun  was 
mounting  noiseh'ss  up  the  sky ;  the  shadows  lay  silent 
upon  the  grass  ;  and  little  yellow  butterflies,  without  a 
sound,  were  flitting  now  and  then  ;  while  the  wash  of 
water  on  the  beach  seemed  to  be  against  some  barrier 
quite  outside  of  this  still  spot. 

He  turned  toward  her  again,  and  said,  calmly  and 
strongly : — 

"  Doubtless  you  know  the  nature  of  this  conflict.  If 
you  b(;lieve  it  to  be  a  religious  one,  you  are  right." 

"  Thank  God  !  "  cried  she,  suddenly,  while  the  sudden 
tears  filled  up  her  eyes  again  ;  "  I  thought  so !  Oh,  I 
knew  it !     I  knew  it  must  be  !     And  yet  not ?  " 

He  answered : — 

"  It  is  indeed  a  thing  to  thank  God  for  ;  but  the  end  is 
not  yet." 

To  her  it  seemed  as  if  the  end  could  not  be  far  off 
from  the  beginning,  for  she,  like  a  woman,  looked  only  at 
the  distance  from  one  point  to  the  other  in  the  spirit,  and 
did  not  count  the  weary  toil  of  climbing  down  and  making 
a  way  through  thickets  and  across  deep  gulfs,  and  climb- 
ing up. 

"  Why  is  it  so  long  ?  "  she  asked.  "  What  is  there 
between  seeing  error  and  renouncing  it  ?  and  what  is 
there  between  renouncing  it  and  taking  up  the  truth  you 
knew  before  ? — I  speak  out  of  a  woman's  heart ;  I  am 

28 


4 

I! 
pi 


4nf 


vwv.  NKW  nnisT 


% 


hnl  !i  womjui."  she  miIi1('«',  .  ncckinu;  licrsrlf'.  lis  if  she  wcit 
p)in«x  lot)  \]\<\. 

"  Yoii  hnvc  (lone  no  wron^i,'*  ho  saitl  :  '*  hnl  i(  is  not  nil 
so  siinph'.  Il  in  m  Uin<l  ^vish  to  spfiro  iho  ihrocs  of'jigony 
\\v,\\  luiist  h(»  hojiio  ;  l>nl  ihov  tjmiiot  h<>  spMnMl.  (mmI'm 
work  iniist  ii\ko  (itxl's  limo  :  m»»(1  llioro  is  hul  onn  \\i\y 
for  Tnnn  in  il — wrosllin*;  mii'I  prMvor.  This  is  nol  fill  ; 
iIkm-o  nro  ninnv.  ntMov  ihinjrs  lo  Ix'  dono  miuI  siilVorrd, 
it" 

Aii'Min  ho  lofl  lln*  sonltMico  wilhoul  end,  nnd  looked 
townrd  lh(>  I'mt  son. 

•'li'"  sho  ropc'Mh'd  ;illor  him.  Tlio  word  nindo  it 
sv(Mn  MS  il"  i(  were  iMrlhor  lo  lh(>  otnl  lluin  sho  h.-id  snd- 
dotdv  h«>|>od  -iiMv.  MS  il  fhdi  vwA  nii^hl  porliMps  novor  ho 
r(\Mohod.  "I  didn't  ihiidv  oi"  muv  '  il'.'"  Sho  omsI  hor 
ov<\s  sMdIy  to  tho  ijronnd. 

"  1  ihonghl,'  sho  h(^»:Mn  M,i:Min,  "how  short  this  iil'c*  wns, 
and  lunv  nnoorlMin  : — i  lhon<>hl  iIimI  whal  wo  nnt  Mwny 
from  ns  now.  v  niMv  novor.  pcM'hMps.  Iimvo  in  onr  power 
.Mij.Min  !  WliMl  we  liMve  n«>w.  wi*  nnisl  nse  now.  I 
thonuhl  »>i  //^"^  -'ind  I  lhon;2,ht  tluil  a  wrong  whieh  might 
b,."- 

Sho  pMns(Ml.  and,  lookin;j:  np,  smw  his  ev(>s  fixed  eiir- 
neslly  npon  hor. 

Wo  look  np  hor  nnlinislnMJ  sentence  : — 

" a  wronix  ^vhieh  niMv  he  righted  now,  onght  not 

to  WMil." 

"Oh!  1  do  nol  m(\Mn  m  wrong  dono  \o  nn/scff.  Il  'm 
nol  mv  own  h;»ppioess  llril  I  .''m  lookir.g  tor,"  slw  ex- 
elainKMl ;  and.  pMl(>  a '  slu^  wm^,  a  llnsh  <'Min<>  over  her  (aee, 
wliieh  showed  iiow  singly  Ium*  mind  had  followed  its  ohj«'et, 
withont  giving  u  thonght  to  aiy  possibili'y  of  mi  '.on- 
ptrnotion. 


m¥ 


i..r 


■  ^v:-- 


•  .\; 


wcro 

u)t  nil 

ngony 

0  way 

1)1  nil  ; 

IooU<mI 

(!«(!<>  it. 
1(1  simI- 
>vrr  lio 
!isl   luT 

Wo  was, 

t     !UV!Vy 

1'  nowor 

)\V.        I 

nn<il»t 
(1  car- 


irht  not 

,1\.'     «>X- 

cr  I'acr, 

(ll)j(M't, 

tni  '  on- 


KAIIIIsU    l)l,IU{Ki;S   WALK    KUOM    UAY   IIAUUOK.    {[}-, 

"Oil  !  no!"  lie  aiiswru'd,  •'no  Hiispi«'ioti  of  H«'l(i^lin«<H'< 
roiild  IjihIcii  i'scll'  u|M»n  your  wonls  or  on  yniir  look  ;  but 
it'  I  \vcM'<<  led  aloM^  niilil  I  could  iiol  liiil  tlit'ow  oil'  tliirt 
priesthood  Mild  nliiiiidoii  lliirA  ( 'Inircli,  I  HJiall  ^o  lliroiitrli 
ovcM'v  step  of  it,  (Jod  JH'iMfr  my  lirlpi  r  ;  ntid  llicn'  juo 
many  slops  and  hard  oiir^j,  lh;it  y^n\  know  n<»lhin;^  (»!. 
Iiiil  I  would  l»<  nioiir  in  what  I  do  ai.d  MnlV<-r  ;  none  ran 
do  Of  Im'mi'  it  lot'  inc,  and  none  oti^ht  to  do  and  hnir  it 
with  mo.  You  have  mot  mo  Imtc  nnoxporlrdly.  Wo 
mayor  may  not  moi>r  a<j^ain,  llchai.  I  lio|)<>  wo  Hhall. 
I  hav(^  t(dd  you,  alont>,  what  you  havo  a  ri;^ht  to  know. 
My  way  is  not  yot  <'l(')ir.  II'  I  live,  and  ( iod  leads  me. 
out  of  this  eonlliet  to  the  end  toward  wlii(di  I  am  now 
drawn,  we  shall,  it  Me  will,  nieef  ji;j^!iin,  and  not  a<  wo 
part  now.  Wait  ( iod's  tinn',  and  |>iay  lor  me!  ( iood- 
bye!" 

As  he  said  these  words,  he  turned  snddetdy  on  his 
luM'l ;  hut  whether  it  was  that  the  sad  lone,  in  which  ho 
Buid  wiM'ds  ol'  lillh>  hope,  had  overcome  her,  or  that  the. 
deep  reeling  ol'  his  larewell  touched  her  more  nearly  than 
over,  she  spranji;  forward  a  pace  or  two  alter  him. 

"  Walt(M'  !"  she  crie(|,  |(>nderly  and  mournfully,  "  Wal- 
tiM" !  not  so  !  W('  may,  indeed,  never  meet  a;^ain.  Let, 
not  this  b<;  all — lor  ever  !      Ij(!t  m(!  say  " — — 

As  ho  Inrnod  rouml  a;^ain,  it  mi<!;lit  ho  seen  that  his 
ey(>s  were  lilh^d  with  tears  ;  but  ho  was  just  as  calm  and 
8elf-|)osscssed  as  b(^foro. 

"  Ah  !  if  wo  meet  again,"  he.  said,  "  it  may  bo  for  mo 
to  oi)en  a  sad  heart;  it  may  b(^  for  me  to  go  <lovvn  upon 
my  kneos  for  your  forgiveness. — My  way  is  not  y(!t 
clear,"  ho  i*o[)ealed,  and  then  said,  "  Now  will  you  leave 
mc  ?     And  may  God  bless  you  !  " 

lie  hold  his  bund  out  to  iior,  and  she  silently  took  it  in 


ii0 


It* 


4  no 


T11K   NKW   rUiKST. 


"h 


:i\ 


'  1  *.^! 


'4 


S     I 


;-.  J 


bodi  Ikm's,  and  ihcn  silcnlly  roIonsiMl  il.  SiloiiHy,  also, 
tho  oliiM  oanio  l\)rwanl,  nniiotiiMMl  at  lirst,  ami  lioM  up  to 
hiiu  the  band  tliat  was  <lis«Mi}2;af;<Ml  fVoai  Ium*  apron  :  and 
>vh(Mi  he  saw  1um%  ho  took  hor  hand,  and  stooping  down, 
kissed  her  npon  hor  t'orohcMid. 

"  (to«l  hUvss  you,  too,  htth'  Mary !"  ho  said,  and  tlum 
gently  dropped  her  hand. 

Th<'  lady  spoke  onee  nioro  : — 

"  Oh  !  Walter !  ( — l(>t  nio  eall  ytin  hy  yonr  own  name  !) 
INIay  (it)d  l/iess  i^ott  !  1  am  of  no  aeeonnt ;  hnt  you — • 
oh!  what  work  yon  might  do  lor  (lod  !  Oh!  ;w(/// (Jod 
bless  yon  ! " 

Then  taking  little  INTary  hy  the  hand,  she  led  her  very 
fjist  away. 

"  INIannna !  "  said  the  little  girl,  wluMi,  aOiM*  getting  to 
the  road,  she  sat  »h)wn  at  its  side  npon  the  beach,  " /,s  ho 
my  nnele?"  It  was  the  same  (pieslion  that  had  been 
asked  at  her  in  the  CMiurehyard. 

Her  mother's  head  was  b«^two(>n  her  hands  npon  her 
knees.  She  answered  thickl},  through  her  weeping, 
"Oh!  no,  Darling." 

Little  INIary  was  ready  with  a  child's  substitute,  and 
she  said : — 

"  He's  my  fricmJ^  then,  isn't  he,  ISramma?  He  called 
rae  INIary,  now ;  that's  what  I  lohl  him  my  name  was." 

Earthquakes  and  great  convulsive  changes  of  the  earth, 
— the  slip  of  ice-elitfs,  the  cutting  off  of  fertile  field?,  \>y 
the  mighty  stream  asiray,  the  overturning  of  a  kingly 
house,  or  razing  of  a  boundary, — any  of  these  will  find 
its  place  in  history  ;  but  that  for  which  no  human  record 
is  enough,  and  which  is  noted  in  God's  Book  alone, — a 
thing  of  more  account  than  any  change  of  earth  or  em- 
pire,— is  the  upturning  of  a  single  man's  being. 


il  up  to 
n  ;  luvl 
;  down, 


immo !) 
1  you — • 
lay  (iod 

lior  very 

iMling  to 
1,  "  is  ho 
iinl  been 

iipon  licr 
weeping, 

lute,  and 


rAlUKU   ininUKK'S   WAI.K    TKOM    hay   IIAIMU)U.    \w; 

Dor^  !iny  inim  wlio  vr:\\\^  \\\U  know — (iiy,  sninr  of 
tluMn  ilo)  -wliMl  il  in  lo  Irrl  (lull  llm  world  ol'  n  niMn's 
l)«'in;^  is  l(r<"Mkin;j;  IVom  ilM  orhil,  niid  nnisl  lie  lifuvrd  iiilo 
\\  iK'w  one,  nnd  llicr*'  riisl(>iH>d  Ity  snrr  hund^  ol  dniwiii}^ 
iind  willidiMWUi;:^,  ho  not,  in  (lio  tnrnn  liinr,  Im'Iwcmmi  (ho 
new  and  old,  (o  wander  wild,  and  «^o  lo  .vreek? 


>2^ 
^.^ 


S 


li 


lie  called 

wai^." 
Ihe  earth, 
iudda  i»y 
la  kingly 
I  will  tind 
m  record 
|\lone, — a 

li  or  cm- 


II 


m 


^hm 


«    ill' 


s  •' 


I 


h 


1 .18 


THli   NKW   PRIEST. 


CITAPTKU  XLVir. 


I  I 


m.'i 


in  H 


fh 


'^.  ■j  <■  i  I 


AN    OTENING    INTO    FATIIKK    DKUREK  d    HEART. 

NOTE  w!is  l)roii;rl,t  to  Mr.  Wrlloii  by  a  child 
wlioin  lie  dill  not  i^now.     The  hjuulwritiiijj;  of  the 
tuldrcss  was  stran;>('  to  him  ;  and  tlio  seal,  which 
was  lieraldic,  was  strari<j;cly  rudo  in  its  cuttiuj^. 
"  Who  sent  this  ?  "  lie  asked,  as  he  opened  it. 
"Father  l^natins,  sir,"  answered  the  child. 
The    reading   within   was   as   follows,  written  with    a 
pencil : — 

"  lie  that  once  was  Mrs.  Harre's  husband  is  a  Roman 
Catholic  i)riest ;  but  he  is  a  man. — That  abominable  in- 
sinuation has  been  followed  up  to  its  author,  and  shall  be 
put  down,  whatever  it  may  cost. 

"  AVill  Mr.  Wellon,  lor  the  love  of  God,  contradict  it 
and  Jfout  it,  in  my  name  ?  Words  cannot  be  invented, 
too  strong  to  express  Mrs.  Barrb's  purity. 

Most  hurriedly 
«  Castle  Bay,  &c.  D— 


» 


Mr.  Wellon  hastened  to  Mrs.  Barre. 

"  I've  a  note  from  Mr.  Debree,"  he  said,  and  gave  it 
into  her  eager,  trembling  hand. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  glancing  at  the  outside,  "  that's  his  I— 
—I  don't  know  the  seal" — (she  did  not  seem  to  have 


» 


rave  it 


AN  OI'KNINCJ   INTO    KATIIKK   DKISIMIK'S    IIKAUT.  43J) 

frliiiu'cil  al  il,  ill  opciiiii;;  tlui  iiolr.)  \\y  one  rush  of  tlio 
hlootl  slic  jficw  jj;liaslly  pule,  as  Iwr  eyes  slraiii('(l  ii|iun 
tli(!  tii'sl  words  ;  ilicii  lii'i'  lips  (piivcrcd,  and  she  scoiikmI 
iirarly  ovt-rcoMM'.  She  rrad  il  llii«)ii;j;li,  lor  a  slight  sob, 
or  iiiarlicMilatc  (^xclainatioii,  inaiUcd  Ixr  liaviii^  coiiiu  to 
tlio  end  ;  but  she  still  held  it  with  both  bauds,  and  pored 
upon  it. 

J*r('s('nlly,  rccolh^-tiu^  hcrsrif,  slio  said  : — 

"  Hut  you  nnist  hav«'  it." 

Ill  t'oldiii;^  it  n^ain,  sb(>  ai^iiiii  noticed  the  seal,  but  not 
closely,  and  said,  in  an  absent  way, — 

*' No,  I  don't  know  this, —  I  don't  know  this;"  and 
fj;ave  it  back  to  JNIr.  Wellon. 

He  looked  at  the  seal  more  elosi^ly  than  slu;  had  dono. 
"The  letters  seem  to  spell  '  Dkhukk,'  but  with  an  'I,'" 
said  he;  "the  true  way,  J  suppose.  I  never  saw  it 
written." 

"  Yes,  it's  Norman;  '  I)E  lUMK;'— and  l[iijj;uenot," 
said  Mrs.  Jiarre,  weepin<jj,  and  speakin;^  like  one  whose 
mind  was  upon  other  thin;j;s. 

Perhaps  to  divert  her  attiiution,  Mr.  Wellon  continued 
his  examination. 

"  This  appears  to  be  a  heap  of  atones,"  said  he. 

"  A  breach  in  a  wall,"  she  said,  rising,  and  taking  from 
her  desk  a  letter  which  she  put  into  his  hand.  The  seal 
bore  a  well-delined  impression  of  a  broken  wall,  across 
whose  breach  a  gauntletted  hand  held  a  s[)ear.  Tho 
motto  was  "  Non  citua." 

"  It  came  from  Rouen,  in  the  old  wars,"  she  explained, 
"  and  the  I'amily  added  the  word  '  Barre,'  ibr  '  Chemin 
Barre,'  because  one  of  them  '  barred '  the  way,  single- 
handed  ; "  and  she  gave  herself  again  to  her  thoughts. 

"  It  was  '  De  Brie-Barre,'  then  ?  "  he  said ;  but  added, 


'l^^^l 

i 

J 


\i 


^i 


440 


THE  NEW  PP^EST. 


immediately,  "  Pardon  me,  my  dear  Mrs.  Barre,  if  I  seem 
to  have  been  drawing  out  your  confidence.  It  was  en- 
tirely without  a  thought." 

"  It  does  not  matter,  now,"  she  answered ;  "  Mr. 
De  Brie  was  my  husband ;  but  that  name  Ignatius  is  a 
new  one,  when  he  became  a  Romish  priest.  His  own 
name  is  Walter." 

Almost  the  first  person  whom  he  met  in  the  road 

was  Miss  Dare,  and  he  gave  her  the  note  to  read.  She 
wept,  like  Mrs.  Barre. 

"  So  he  is  her  husband  ! "  she  exclaimed.  Then  turn- 
ing the  letter  over,  her  eye,  too,  was  caught  by  the  seal, 
which  she  examined  more  closely  than  the  wife  had  done. 

"  This  must  be  a  fancy  of  his  own,"  she  said ;  "  a 
mockery  of  his  name;  it  reads  'DEBRIS,'  and  the 
charge,  (or  'vhatever  it  is,)  is  a  heap  of  stones." 


f  < 


vm 


w   •: 


!i|ii! 


FATHER  DE   BRIE   DOUBTS. 


441 


'Mi 


(( 


CHAPTER  XLVIIL 

FATHER    DE    BRIE    DOUBTS. 

t'  ^jHE  body  was  not  found;  the  Grand  Jury  had 
indicted  Father  Nicholas  for  abduction,  and  not 
murder  ;  tlie  day  of  trial  was  fixed  for  the 
fifteenth  of  October. 

Mr.  Wellon  made  several  calls  at  the  Priest's  house, 
in  Peterport,  without  finding  the  occupant  at  home. 
Father  De  Brie  had  kept  himself  entirely  secluded ;  and, 
for  the  time,  had  resorted  to  Brine's  empty  house,  on 
Grannam's  Noddle. 

Within  a  few  days  he  was  again  at  Bay-Harbor,  and 
begged  leave  to  talk  with  Father  Terence.  The  good 
old  father  looked  anxious. 

"  Didn't  ye  finish  those  preliminaries  ye  were  having 
with  Father  Nicholas,  that  time  ?  "  he  inquired. 

"  I  believe  I  have  finished  with  Father  Nicholas,  and 
perhaps  with  more,"  answered  his  visitor,  with  an  em- 
phasis quite  alarming  to  the  worthy  elder ;  and  from 
which,  and  its  antecedents  and  consequents,  he  sought  an 
escape,  thus : — 

"  Then  have  ye  any  objection  to  take  a  step  across  the 

hall  to  the  library  ?  and  bring ?  "  but,  surprised  at  the 

manner  of  the  person  whom  he  addressed,  he  exclaimed, 
"But  what  ails  je,  man?  Is  it  angry  ye  are?  Or 
troubled  ?   or  what  's  it  ?  " 


^i   Ml 


!»!(,; 


442 


THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


*'! 


'ji 


n  j> 


li.  h  i 


I      - 


fifiii 


"  Gin  you  oblige  me  with  an  lioiir's  conversation,  good 
Father  Terence  ?  " 

"  Ah  !  now,  don't  be  calling  me  good  ;  no  man*s  good, 
and  me  least;  but  what'll  you  want  of  an  hour's  con- 
versation ?  Take  my  advice,  now  ;  let  what  ye'iv? 
after  having,  do  ye.  It's  best  not  saying  anny  thing  about 
those  troublesome  things.  It's  riot  good,  quarrelling,  anny 
way,  and  laste  of  all  with  a  man ." 

"  My  dear  Father  Terence,"  said  De  Brie,  with  a 
decision  and  force  which  showed  that  he  knew,  perfectly, 
what  he  was  about,  and  could  take  his  own  part,  "  quarrel- 
ling is  not  my  way ;  but  when  I  am  unavoidably  brought 
into  collision  with  any  man,  I  am  ready  to  meet  that 
emergency. — Will  it  be  convenient  to  you  to  give  me  so 
much  time  ?     I  hope  I  am  not  asking  too  much." 

Poor  Father  O'Toole,  who  had  lived  a  quiet  life,  and 
exercised  a  gentle  sway  for  so  many  years,  was  uneasy 
at  finding  himself  among  these  strong  spirits  of  a  younger 
generation  ;  but  like  an  honest  man,  as  he  was,  deter- 
mined to  take  up  the  duty  that  fell  to  him,  little  as  he 
liked  it. 

"  Sure,  if  you  want  it,  and  I  can  be  of  anny  service  to 
ye,  I'll  do  it  with  all  my  heart ; "  and  he  sat  down  to  the 
duty.  On  second  thoughts  he  locked  the  door,  and  then 
seated  himself  again. 

The  younger  priest  began  abruptly: — 

"  Father  Terence,  Tm  losing  my  faith  in  the  Roman 
Catholic  Church  !  " 

'• '  The  Roman — Catholic — Church ! '  and  '  losing  faith ! ' 
Ave  Maria! — Sub  tuum  ^ircpsidiuni.* — Why,  man,  ye're 
mad !  Don't  lose  your  faith ! "  exclaimed  the  kind- 
hearted  old  man,  starting  to  his  feet,  and  losing  his  pipe, 
which  fell,  in  disregarded  fragments,  on  the  floor. — 
*  Hail,  Mary!  under  thy  protection. 


good 

good, 

con- 

yc'n- 

about 

,  anny 

nth  a 
foctly, 
larrel- 
rought 
it  that 
me  so 

f'e,  and 
uneasy 
ounger 
deter- 
as  he 

vice  to 

to  the 

Id  then 


loman 


I  faith!' 

kind- 
Is  pipe, 


FATHER   DE  BRIE   DOUDTS. 


443 


"Don't  be  letting  that  difficulty  with  tliis  man, beyond, 
— sure  you  know  there's  not  many  bad  priests." 

"  No ;  I'm  thinking  of  something  else  ;  I  forget  him.— 
Father  Terence,  this  is  no  personal  difficulty  between 
me  and  any  one.  My  difficulties  are  religious.  I've 
lost  " the  younger  man  was  continuing,  in  a  sad,  de- 
termined tone  ;  but  was  interrupted. 

"  Be  easy,  now  !  Take  care  what  ye're  saying.  It 
was  only  ye  were  ^  losing,^  a  wliile  ago,  but  now  it's,  'i've 
lost*  Don't  say  that !  Don't  say  it !  Take  time  ;  take 
time.  And  is  yer  memory  going,  too  ?  Ye  say  ye  forget 
Father  Nicholas." 

Silence  followed,  while  the  old  man  had  his  hand  upon 
the  other's  arm. 

"  Sit  down  again,  now,"  he  went  on,  in  a  kind  way, 
(though  it  was  himselt'  that  had  risen  from  his  seat,  the 
younger  not  having  been  seated  at  all.)  Father  Terence 
sat  down  again  ;  the  other  stood,  as  before,  with  his  back 
to  the  mantel-piece. 

"  Man  dear  !  "  exclaimed  P'ather  Terence,  sorrowfully, 
after  fixing  himself  in  his  seat.  "  IIow  long  are  ye  this 
way  ?  I  never  hard  a  word  of  it,  before*  Moly  Mother 
of  God  !     What's  this  !     Poor  man  !  " 

As  he  said  this  he  looked  most  anxiously  upon  his 
comjjanion. 

"  Father  Terence  !  "  said  the  other,  then,  with  a  deep 
calmness,  his  face  being,  at  the  same  time,  pale  with  the 
strong  feeling  gathered  at  his  heart,  "  '  Losing '  and  '  lost,' 
in  faith,  are  nearer  one  another,  than  in  other  things.  To 
be  losing  is  to  have  lost,  already." 

"  Stop  there,  now ;  say  no  more  at  present.  Y'  are 
under  some  sort  of  delusion,  I'm  thinking.  The  way  is 
to  turn  from  it,  altowlher.     You  don't  make  use  of  the 


,•(* 


M' 


\\'% 


£k 


!S.,?. 


«      « 


k> 


1  I 


444 


THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


m 


pipe,  I  believe  ?  Sure,  we  can  wait  till  after  tea,  then, 
can't  we  ?     I'll  have  it  early,  too." 

"  Th.'Mik  you  ;  but  I've  no  appetite  for  food.  I  cannot 
fairly  eat  or  sleep,  my  mind  is  in  8uch  a  heaving  state. 
There  is  a  hot  force,  within,  striving  for  an  outlet." 

Father  Terence  answered  with  a  cheeriness  evidently 
beyond  his  feeling  : — 

"  But  why  does  your  mind  be  heaving  ?  my  own  never 
heaves ;  but  just  goes  as  steady  and  as  true  as  the  race 
of  a  mill,  "or  whatever  it  is  they  call  it,  meaning  the  big 
stone  that  goes  round  and  round.  Discipline  is  the  thing ; 
discipline  for  the  body  and  the  same  for  the  mind,  as  well. 
Sure,  if  I  found  a  new  thought  coming  up  in  my  mind,  I'd 
know  something  was  wrong  about  it." 

'*  You're  happy,  Father  Terence,  but  I  can  never  be 
happy  in  the  same  way.  What  I  believe,  I  believe ;  and 
what  I  don't  believe,  I  do  not." 

"  Very  good,  then,"  said  Father  O'Toole,  evidently 
anxious  to  prevent  the  other  from  getting  further  in  his 
speech,  as  if  that  would  keep  his  thoughts  back,  also, 
"  sure,  it's  a  small  thing  to  believe.  Here's  the  Faith,  for 
example,  and  he-3's  myself;  I  say,  'I  hold  this  faith  and 
will  hold  it  till  my  last  breath.'     That's  easy  saying." 

"  It's  easy  speaking.  Father  Terence,  if  it  be  only 
working  of  the  tongue  and  lips  ;  but  in  my  case,  it  could 
only  be  without  thinking.  I  cannot  say  so.  I  have  once 
thought  it  possible,  and  for  a  long  time,  have  been  satis- 
fied with  not  doubting,  as  if  that  were  believing,  and  have 
not  doubted  because  I  would  not  doubt.  It  cannot  be  so, 
with  any  thing  essential  to  salvation.  I  must  believe,  in- 
deed, if  I  believe  at  all.  A  dawning  light  is  beginning  to 
make  me  see  that  the  claim  of  the  Roman  Catholic 
Church  "   (the  old  priest  hitched  himself,  a  little,  at  this 


I 


,  then, 

cannot 
I  state. 

idently 

1  never 
lie  race 
the  big 
)  thing ; 
as  well, 
iind,  I'd 

ever  be 
fQ ;  and 

^^idently 
!r  in  his 
k,  also, 
aith,  for 
lith  and 

ng." 
)e  only 

lit  could 

[ve  once 
m  satis- 
id  have 
)t  be  so, 

|ieve,  in- 
ining  to 
atholic 
,  at  this 


FATHER  DE  BRIE  DOUBTS. 


445 


title)  "  is  but  a  thing  made  up  of  rags  and  spangles, 
though  by  lamp-light  it  was  splendid.  Things  that  I 
dared  not  doubt  begin  to  look  like  scarecrows  and  elR- 
gies.     The  Catholic  Church  I  was  brought  up  in " 

"  What  time  is  it  ye  see  these  sights  ?  "  asked  the  elder, 
as  if  he  had  found  the  key  to  his  companion's  strange 
state  of  mind  ;  "  is  it  by  day,  or  by  night,  ye  said  ?  " 

The  other  heard  with  the  gravest  patience  and  polite- 
ness ;  and  his  mighty  fervor  and  force  lifted  the  surround- 
ings, and  kept  the  scene  up  to  its  own  dignity. 

"  I  ask  pardon  for  speaking  in  figures,"  he  said, 
"which,  perhaps,  spoken  hast"!y,  have  made  my  meaning 
indistinct. — I  mean  to  say  that  I  don't  feel  safe ; — I 
doubt ; — I'm  afraid  of  the  Roman  (Jkurch  !  " 

"  What's  the  matter,  then  ?  "  asked  Father  Terence, 
anxiously.     ''  What's  it  ye  mane  ?  " 

"I  fear  I'm  in  a  ship  unseaworthy,"  said  Father  De 
Brie,  sadly.  "  Oh !  it  might  be  sound  !  Would  God, 
it  were  ! " 

"  But  tliore's  no  ship,  man  ;  y'are  not  in  a  ship,  at  all." 

"  Ah !  I  spoke  in  a  figure  again  ;  I  mean  this  Church, 
— this  Church, — Father  Terence  !  " 

"  And  why  wouldn't  she  be  seaworthy,  then  ?  "  asked 
Father  Terence,  evidently  not  knowing  how  to  take  what 
the  other  said.  "  A  good  manny  years  she's  going  !  "  and 
he  looked  up,  steadily,  into  De  Brie's  face,  who  answered, 
slowly  and  thoughtfully, — 

"  But  oughtn't  she  to   have   been  cond ?  " — He 

broke  off. — "  I  don't  wish  to  pain  you,  Father  Terence," 
he  said,  "  but  what  can  I  do  ?     This  doubt  will  come ! " 

"  Aren't  there  bad  men  in  all  of  them  ?  "  asked  the  old 
priest,  going  back  to  his  first  explanation. 

"  This  has  nothing  to  do  with  Crampton, — unless    this 


i 


MO 


TlIK   NKW   rUIMST. 


p'j ,   [ 

pi  '   ■ 

:           t 

\ 

:  •'■  t 

! 

liii 


Chtirvh  tuMlirs  liim  wluit  bo  is.  INIy  <iii<'8li(Mi  is  with  ////.v 
(Vmrr/»J   NotTho  Holy  Cafliolio  Clmrch  ol'llio  ('rcnlH— " 

"  Aiul  whiit  ails  tiio  Church? — sun',  if  sh(^  was  jjood 
(Miouiijh  once,  ship's  ijood  (MiojiljIi  how.  —  Y'nrn  not  for 
g<»iiiijf  haok  ?   What  Cluin'h  is  thcro  hut  tho  one  ?" 

"  I  nuis(  satisfy  this  (h>ul)t,  l''ath(M*  'INtimico,  if  it  costs 
my  lil'o  ! — Is  this  a  clxuifV  I  lis  cyca  were  ri'sth'ss, 
aiui  j)rcs(>iitly  ho  boi^an  to  walk  th(^  room. 

"Oh  (loar!  Oh  dear!  Is  this  what  it  is!"  snid 
Father    Torouco,  in  ijroat  pain. 

Tho  yonnijj  |)ri<>  t  stopped  in  his  walkinj^,  very  much 
agitated. 

*'  I  came  by  stops,  Father  Tohmico.  T  saw  what  seemed 
innovations,  contradictions,  corruptions,  falselioods;  but  1 
tbougitt  tiiat  auf/ton'ft/  was  there,  and  shut  my  <'yes,  and 
kept  thorn  shut. — Shall  1  dare  this?  Having  eyes,  must. 
I  not  sec?  If,  before  my  eyes,  a  man  is  :  lowly  clind)ing 
into  Ciirist's  place  on  earth,  an<l  a  woman  okscuring  both 
Father  and  Son  in  hoaveU' " 

"  Are  ye  sottitig  yor  foot  on  the  r"'aitl>  ?  "  a8k(Ml  P^ithor 
Terence,  mournfully.  "  A  man  can't  climb  to  Christ's 
lilace.'' 

"Tho  larger  and  stronger  party  are  pushing  him  to  it. 
If  be  take  it,  what?  JMan  is  tlu>  Head!  A\\  !  Christ  is 
the  Iload — tho  Church,  His  Hody,  tho  fulness  of  Jlim 
that  nileth  all  in  all!     Christ!" 

"  Sure,  ye  can  belitne  as  tho  Church  believes,  can  yo 
not?  Isn't  tho  Church  infallible?"  argued  tho  worthy 
elder,  in  bis  kind,  simple  way. 

"  But,  dear  Father  Terence,"  the  younger  answered, 
strongly  and  respectfully,  "  a  jxwt  of  the  Church  ! — sup- 
pose that,  next,  they  make  it  one  man " 

**  But  what  need  ye  be  troubling  yerself  to  pick  into 
her  faith  ?     Why  can't  ye  leave  that  to  the  Church  ? 


"h    ! 


mt 


1 


-sup- 

Ick  into 
luircli  ? 


FATMKK   DK   lUilK   DOIIIITS. 


4t7 


Docsn'l  slw  say,  iHrrsrlf,  tlijit  w(3're  ull  to  boliiivo  without 
doiihliiiir  ?  " 

"Oh!  I  would  if  I  coiihl.  I  hjiv(i  Iriccl  il." — IIciv,  ho 
looked  lixcdly  at  his  hcjircr,  hm  if  coiisiilcriii^  his  ojisy 
coiiditioii  of  coiitciil.  llo  added:  "It  will  nut  do.  I 
innsl.  l»(5liov(^  for  inyHoll!  I  hco  it.  Mine  is  no  doubt  of 
th«^  (alliolic.  Faith,  or  tlu>  Catholic  ('hin-<'.h!" 

"  Thrr*',  now  1  Yc'rc  coniin;^  round.  Yc'll  <lo,  uf'l*!!*  a 
hit.  That's  well  said  ;  yv  sec.  yo  tinist  h('li«iV(s"  said 
Father  O'Toole,  his  kindly  heait  }i;oin;;  hefore,  his  head. 

"Ah!  I  wish  I  could  satisfy  tnysell' as  (easily  as  you 
ihitdv  ;  hut   I  catniot.     The  Holy  Scripture " 

"  Uul  what,  sort  of  way  is  thai,  theti?"  asked  Father 
TiM'ence.  "  If  the  whole  of  us  would  he  pickin<;  this  and 
that  article,  sure,  which  one  of  us  would  l)(di(!VO  every 
one  of  theiu  ?  hut  if  we  liold  as  the;  (Church  holds,  sure 
the  C'hurch  is  accountable,  and  not  we." 

The  otlur  w«'nt  on  : — 

"There's  a  true;  C'hurch, — ay,  and  a  visi})le  Church, 
too, — the  liody  of  CJhrist,  in  which  we  nujst  be  members; 
but  is  the  man  lost,  in  it?  Is  his  reason  f^oiK^ ?  Is  his 
consciences  j^'one  ?     Can  he  bury  his  accountability?" 

Father  Terence  heard,  but  scarcely  understood  : — 

"Ah,  llu'u  !"  said  he,  "that's  th(;  very  thin;^  ;  th(!  man 
won't  be  lost  in  it !  No,  an«l  his  reason's  not  K<"><N  "'"'' 
his  conscieiuH'  ay  I  her  ;  it's  not  that  bad  he  is.    No,  no." 

As  he  spoke  he  rose  ajjjain,  and  laid  his  hand  upon   the 


yoimj^er  pri 


vsl  s 


arm,  soolhin<j;ly. 


"  Ah  !  Fath(;r  Terence,"  said  De  Brie,  taking  the  hand 
in  his,  "  1  am  going  over  the  old  questions, — the  same 
old  questions  that  made  martyrs  and  imm  of  faith  in 
all  ages — though  I'm  no  niartyr  ! — the  same  that 
Luther,  s  )  hmg  as  lie  kept  within —" 


m 


w  /.im 


r  M 


*■;; 


m<.  I.. 


448 


THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


ti; 


m: 


•}<(     '!'■       H 


tit  •" 


Father  Terence  half  drew  away  his  liand,  instinctively, 
and  his  voice  was  a  little  discomposed,  as  he  interrupted 
the  speaker,  at  this  word — 

''  But  why  do  ye  be  stirring  old  questions  ?  sure, 
haven't  they  made  trouble  enough,  already  ?  " 

"  The  questions  are  all  old.  Father  Terence  ;  all  ques- 
tions are  old  ;  the  same  over  and  over  again  ;  only  new 
to  each  man  in  turn,  when  they  compel  him  to  answer. 
'  What  mus'  I  do  ^o  \)e  aved  ? '  u  an  old  quesLlan  of  that 
sort.     The  x  ,^1;'.';  outvva/d  words  were  the  old  Creeds!" 

"  Hadn't  t'H3  "liir  Ji  Holy  Scripture,  and  Tradition,  and 
Infallibility?"  asked  th"  older  priest,  kindly,  seeking  to 
lead  him  back  to  the  old  ground. 

"  Compared  with  the  written  Word,  what  is  Tradition  ? 
^nescit  vox  missa  reverti.^*  Opposed  to  the  written  Word, 
what  is  Tradition  ?  Naught ! — and  Infallibility, — who 
believes  the  better  for  it  ?  We  doubt  or  disbelieve  par- 
ticulars, and  think  we  can  believe  the  general.  '  /  believe 
as  the  Church  believes,'  and  yet  half  the  articles  of  her 
faith,  perhaps,  we  do  not  believe ;  when  even  if  we  be- 
lieved every  article,  iind  every  article  were  true,  that 
would  not  be  believing  in  Christ  so  as  to  be  saved  by 
Him  !     Add  Obedience ;  will  that  make  it  ?     Never ! " 

The  speaker  seemed  rather  thinking  aloud,  to  have 
room  for  his  tliron2;insr  thou<2;hts,  than  conversing. 

"  Ah  !  what's  this  ?  what's  this  ?  "  said  Father  Terence, 
mournfully, '"  is  i".  leaving  the  Catholic  Church,  y'are  ?  " 
(he  withdrew  his  hynd,  and  turned  away.)  "  What  ever'U 
the  Vicar  General  say  -,  and  him  telling  myself,  only  a 
little  ago,  ye  were  the  most  hopeful  priest  in  the  coun- 
try ?  " He  sat  down,  heavily,  in  his  chair. 

"  I  will  not  be  out  of  the  Church  ;  it  is  the  Body  of 

*  Speech  uttered  knovs  not  to  come  back. 


■i!!l 


FATFIER   DE   BRIE  DOUBTS. 


411) 


irl" 
have 


jrence, 
'are  r 

ever'll 

jonly  a 

coun- 


lody  of 


Christ,"  said  the  other,  *'  and  I  believe  every  word  of  the 
Creeds;  iu  the  Catholic  Church;  its  priesthood " 

His  hearer,  at  this  last  sentence,  made  an  impulsive 
raovem  mt  o+'  hope,  and  was  about  to  speak  in  that  mood  ; 
but  he  Iiad  snatched  at  r?veral  hopeful-seeming  words, 
already,  and  found  theiii  nothing.  The  glow,  therefore, 
upon  his  face  faded,  and  he  did  not  speak. 

"  The  ords  in  which  Apostles  made  profession  of  their 
faith  ;  what  Saints  and  Martyrs  spoke  with  breath  flicker- 
ing through  the  flames ;  what  babes  and  sucklings  gath- 
ered from  the  lips  of  dying  fathers,  and  mothers  doomed 
to  death,  I  will  hold,  while  I  live  !  God  grant  me  ..  I  ""^e, 
moreover,  a  faith  hke  theirs,  of  which  one  of  tl'in  -  d: 
2^he  life  that  I  now  live,  I  live  by  faith  in  the  So7i  of 
God/" 

Father  Terence  spoke  again  : — 

"  And  what's  to  hii.der  you  keeping  on,  j  ; ,«  ihe  old 
way  ?  "  he  asked ;  *"■  and  can't  ye  have  that  faith  in  the 
Church,  quiet  an'  happy,  without  flyun  an'  flingun  out  ?  '* 

As  the  other  did  not  immediately  answer,  Father 
O'Toole  followed  up  the  advantage. 

"  There,  now  !  Take  time  to  that."  I  know  ye  will. 
Ye  didn't  think  of  that,"  said  he,  fairly  trembling  with  the 
excitement  of  his  feelings.  "  I'll  leave  ye  with  yerself, 
for  a  little ;  I'd  only  be  plaguing  ye  with  my  talking, 
when  ye  want  to  be  alone.  Ye'll  just  stay,  and  go,  and 
do  what  ye  like  in  this  house." 

80  saying,  he  suddenly  went  out  and  shut  the  door. 


29 


'Hi, 


,f^ 


* '  '.  ■ 


r.';.! 


;<  !' 


'f  :;^ 


'H 


!':        IJ 


!  :   1 


4r»o 


THE  NEW   PKIEST. 


CHAPTER   XLIX. 

A    STRANGKR    APPROACIIP:S    LADFORD. 

UR  NewfoiinJlnnd  skies  are  as  lovely  as  those  of 
other  and  choicer  lands  ;  although  the  gorgeous 
and  ex(juisite  hues  that  elsewhere  hang  on  flower- 
Btems  in  the  heavy  sunsiiine  do  not  brighten  the  face  of 
the  earth  here,  but  have  sought  the  weeds  under  our  salt 
northern  waves  and  made  them  beautiful.  The  sky  is 
glorious  at  morn  and  eve  in  summer,  and  at  summer's 
noon  is  clear  and  high ;  and  in  the  night,  when  the  sun 
is  gone  and  has  left  his  place  to  the  stars,  then  also  the 
air  is  so  clear,  that  it  is  beautiful  for  that  very  thing :  in 
winter,  it  is  flashed  and  flushed  all  over  with  the  Northern 
Lights. 

In  the  evening  of  one  of  the  flne  days  of  September, 
one  bright,  strong  star  was  poised  in  the  eastern  sky, 
alone,  shining  up  the  open  water  between  the  Backside 
of  Peterport  and  Castle-Bay,  and  throwing  its  far-world 
light  faintly  among  the  shrubs  and  .  ees.  Its  wake  upon 
the  Bay  was  not  seen  from  the  point  at  which  we  find 
some  of  the  characters  of  our  story,  on  that  evening ; 
though  its  glory  in  the  heavens  was  seen  most  clearly 
over  the  wild,  rough  headland,  half-a-mile  away,  at  Mad 
Cove.  The  point  was  behind  Mr.  Ur.>>ion's  house,  ncsar 
the  Worrell,  whore  the  .-^tccp  descent  goes  sidelong  down 


:i     ! 


lose  of 
)rgeou9 
flower- 
face  of 
our  salt 
1  sky  19 
immer's 
the  sun 
also  the 
ling :  in 
orthern 


jtember, 
2rn  sky, 
iackside 
ir-world 
[ke  upon 
we  find 
pvening  ; 
clearly 
at  INIad 
ise,  near 
111"-  down 


A  STUANGKR   APPROACHES   LADFORD. 


4:)l 


to  the  tiny  Cjve  and  bit  of  pebbly  beach.  Just  at  that 
plare,  a  person  who  was  coming  down  IVoin  the  direction 
of  the  house,  stop[)ed  and  turned  eastward,  sih'utly  ;  and, 
after  a  moment's  pause,  turning  again,  said  aloud,  but  as 
if  exchiimijig  to  himself  only,  or  a])Ostropiiizing  the  beau- 
tiful phuiet : — 

"  Star  of  the  Sea ! — It  shines  like  sweet  hope  to  tiie 
guilty,  and  a  harbor  to  the  shipwrecked  ; — like  the  gate 
of  Heaven,  ajar," 

These  words, — mostly  a  translation  from  a  Roman 
Catholic  Jtlymn  to  the  Virgin,  "  Salve,  Virgo  jiovensr — 
were  said  with  the  accent  and  manner  of  a  gentleman, 
and  with  the  fervor  of  deep  feeling.  In  the  dim  light, 
it  might  be  seen  also,  by  one  near  him,  that  his  dress 
was  not  the  jacket  and  trowsers  of  the  planters  of  the 
country. 

At  the  instant  of  his  turning,  a  man  who  was  coming 
up  the  sidelong  path  from  the  little  cove,  had  come 
within  five  or  six  yards  of  him. 

"  Good  evening  to  you,  my  friend !  "  said  the  speaker, 
to  the  man  coming  up.  "  What  fare,  to-day  ?  Apostles 
sometimes  toiled  a  good  many  hours,  and  got  nothing  for 
their  labor." 

"  Much  the  same  wi'  us,  then,"  answered  the  man,  in  a 
very  meek  voice,  taking  a  pipe  out  of  his  mouth  and 
putting  it  in  his  poctcet,  leaving  the  evening  to  all  its 
darkness. 

"Ah!  we're  well  met:  this  is  William  Ladford,  that 
I've  heard  so  much  of:  the  best  boatman  in  the  Bay?" 

"  I'se  agoun  up  here  a  bit,  sir :  did  'ee  want  any 
thing  wi'  I  ? "  said  the  man,  as  if  he  had  not  heard,  or 
had  not  understood. 

"  Yes ;  since  we've  met,  I  should  like  a  moment's  talk 


i 


:ii 


"f  I 


i'  ' 


i:>2 


THE   NEW   PRIEST. 


:■;,  f 


IN! 


1, 

■■  1  ' 

I 

M 

1 

f  ! 

^fh 

I  i 


H 


Iff 
I 


r 


V' 

i 


m    ;! 


;*i 


with  yon.  T  think  T  know  sonielliiiig  that  may  he  a  good 
(leal  for  your  advantage." 

The  gentleman,  accidentally  or  designedly,  put  his  cano 
across  the  path,  against  a  little  f'ur-trec  or  bush,  working  it 
in  his  hands  as  he  spoke. 

"  JNIuhhe,  this  'am'  person,  her -away,  abeam  of  us," 
said  the  fisherman  (turning  to  the  right  hand  as  he  spoke, 
though  he  had  not  seemed  to  look  in  that  direction  before)  ; 
'' mubbe  'e  belongs  to  'ee,  sir;  do  'e?" 

"  I  didn't  notice  him,"  answered  the  gentleman.  "  There 
was  a  man  to  keej)  me  (C/m[)any  going  home  from  Mr. 
Urston's,  here ;  he'll  know  my  voice,  if  it's  he." 

So  saying,  he  called : — "  Who's  there  ?  " 

No  answer  was  given,  and  the  figure  moved  away 
hastily,  and  disa[)j)eared. 

"  Ef  ee'U  be  so  good  as  excuse  me,  for  a  spurt,  I'll  go 
down  and  make  the  punt  all  right,  sir.  The  wind's  like 
to  come  u})  here  out  o'  Nothe-east,  bum-bye,  accord'n  as 
the  moon  rises. — It  isn'  right  to  ax  a  gen'leman  o'  your 
soart  to  wait  upon  the  like  of  I ; "  he  added,  hesitating, 
for  manners'  sake. 

"  Can  I  help  you  about  the  boat  ?  "  asked  the  gentle- 
man, in  a  hearty  way  that  would  be  very  taking  with 
most  fishermen. 

"  Thank'ee,  sir,  I'll  do  very  woll  alone;"  answered 
the  man,  turning  and  going,  with  a  quick,  light  step,  down 
the  sloping  turf,  and  then  down  the  rocky  ledge  that 
makes  the  path  athwart  the  cliff. 

In  the  black  amphitheatre  broken  out  of  the  rock,  he 
was  soon  lost.  The  moon,  to  whose  rising  he  had  re- 
ferred, was  coming,  but  was  not  yet  come ;  and  though 
the  light  began  to  spread  itself  out  before  her,  it  did  not 
make  its  way  into  this  abyss. 


A  STKANGER   ArPROACHES  LADFORD. 


403 


a  good 

is  cano 
■king  it 

of  US," 

1  ppoke, 
eibre)  ; 

'  There 
Dm  Mr. 


1  away 

,  I'll  go 
id's  like 
jrd'n  as 
o'  your 
sitating, 

gentle- 
ig  with 

iswered 
p,  down 
ge  that 

rock,  he 
lad  re- 
though 
did  not 


The  gentloman,  after  waiting  a  moment  wliere  he  Imd 
been  standing,  began  also  to  go  down,  saying,  at  the  first 
steps  : — 

"  Si  dt'scendcro  ad  inferos — "  * 

He  might  have  gone  thirty  or  forty  yards,  which  would 
have  brought  lilm  near  to  the  western  wall,  where  the 
patli  ends,  and  where  a  practised  eye  couhl  just  make  out 
the  black,  bulky,  shajx'less  masses  of  rock,  across  which 
the  broken  pathway  led  to  the  swashing  water  outside. 
Here  he  stood  stiU. 

The  fisherman  seemed  to  have  gone  into  darkness, 
through  some  opening  in  it,  as  into  a  cave  by  its  mouth. 
Only  the  sounds  from  his  operations,  now  here,  now 
there,  made  to  seem  very  distinct  and  near  by  the  shape 
of  the  place,  witli  its  walls  of  rock,  proved  that  he  was 
busy. 

By  the  time  the  gentleman  reached  tlie  ground  above, 
again,  he  found  the  fisherman  close  behind  him.  The 
latter  dropped  from  his  shoulder  one  end  of  a  long  pole, 
(which,  from  the  click  of  its  metal-shod  point  upon  a 
stone,  as  it  fell,  was  probably  a  boat-hook,)  and  stood  pre- 
pared to  listen. 

The  other  said : — 

"  It  occurred  to  me  that  you'd  be  just  the  man  that  a 
friend  of  mine  wants,  for  mate  of  a  fine  schooner ;  and  I 
think  I  could  get  the  place  for  you,  if  you'd  like  it." 

"  It's  very  kind  of  'ee,  sir,  being  a  parfect  stranger," 
returned  Ladford,  with  something  that  sounded  like  irony. 

"  Noi  »dy's  a  stranger  to  me ;  my  office  makes  me 
every  man's  friend:  I'm  a  clergyman.  Besides,  I  happen 
t-o  know  m(  ve  of  you  than  you  think  ;  1  know  that  case  of 
Aherneihyy 

"  Do   'ee,  now,   sir  ? "  said  Ladford,  in  a  very  stolid 

*  If  I  shall  have  gone  down  to  hell. 


ill 

454 

THE 

NEW  PRIEST. 

way;  ' 
doctor, 

'I've 

wasn 

ahard 

'e'd 

a  many  cases. 

'E 

was 

a 

great 

m> 


"  Pardon  me,"  said  the  Clergyman,  severely  ;  "  I'm  not 
in  the  habit  of  wasting  words,  or  trifling."  He  then 
softened  his  voice,  and  added,  "  but  I  won't  blame  you ; 
you're  used  to  being  on  your  guard,  and  think,  perhaps, 
I'm  not  sure  of  my  man.  I'll  show  you  :  Warrener 
Lane,  you've  heard  of,  I  think.  I  know  him ;  and  I 
know  what  happened  in  the  hold  of  the  '  Guernsey 
Light,'  on  the  Fourteenth  day  of  December,  Fifteen  years 
ago." 

"  If  'ee  do,  then,"  said  Ladford,  in  better  F^peech  than 
he  had  yet  used,  "  you  know  no  harm  of  me  in  it." 

"  Don't  be  afraid,  my  friend ;  I  don't  bring  this  up  aa 
an  accuser,"  said  the  Clergyman.  "  I  mentioned  it  only 
to  show  that  I  knew  you. — 1  know  about  Susan  Barbury, 
too,  and  the  child,"  he  added,  in  a  low  and  gentle  voice. 
"  You  see  I  know  more  than  one  thing  about  you." 

Ladford  moved  on  his  feet,  but  was  silent. 

"  I  feel  the  more  interested  in  you,  for  what  I  know ; 
and  if  I  can  serve  you,  shall  be  rejoiced.  What  do  you 
think  of  the  place  I  speak  of;  the  'berth,'  as  I  suppose 
you'd  call  it  ?  " 

"  Thank  'ee,  sir  ;  I  believe  T'U  stay  where  I  am  a 
while. — I  don't  care  much  about  places,"  said  the  fisher- 
man. 

"  I  understand  your  case,  you  know  ;  and  I  assure  you 
there'd  be  no  danger.  We  can  take  care, — you'd  be  secure, 
I  mean, — and  a  pardon  might  be  got  out  from  the  Crown, 
too,  and  then  you'd  be  free." 

"Thank  'ee,  sir;  I  believe  I  won't  try  the  place,  if  it's 
the  same  to  you.  Did  'ee  know,  sir,  I'm  summoned  for 
witness  ?  " 

•'Ah  !  I  remember,"  said  the  Clergyman,  with  feeling. 


great 

ra  not 
then 
you; 
rbaps, 
rrener 
and  I 
ernsey 
I  years 

b.  than 

5  up  aa 
it  only 
arbury, 
3  voice. 


know ; 
do  you 
uppose 

am  a 
fisher- 

ire  you 
I  secure, 
rown, 

I,  if  it's 
led  for 


Feeling. 


A  STRANGER  APPROACHES  LADEORD. 


455 


"That  would  rest  with  God  ;  we  musn't  bargain.  ^ Free' 
ly  lue  have  received  ;  freely  ive  give,^  " 

Ladford,  at  this  point,  drew  himself  up. 

''  I  believe  I'll  just  keep  myself  to  myself,  for  the  pres- 
ent," said  he,  shouldering  his  boat-hook. 

"  Very  good ;  take  care  of  yourself,  then ! "  said 
Father  Nicholas,  and  turned  to  move  away;  but  his 
})lae.i  was  likely  to  be  tilled  by  two  men,  who  made 
their  ai)pearance  as  the  priest  had  said  the  last  few 
words,  in  a  httlc  louder  tone  tlian  he  had  been  speak- 
ing in,  and  who  came,  at  an  easy  walk,  li'om  the  east- 
ern end  of  the  house,  one  of  them  whistling.  They 
both  touched  their  hats,  without  any  other  salutation,  as 
they  ])assed  the  priest  now  going  up  the  same  path  by 
which  they  were  coming  to  the  scene  of  the  late  conver- 
t;ation. 

"  I  must  wish  yoii  a  Good-evenun,  too,"  said  Ladford, 
as  they  got  within  i  ',*>  feet  of  him,  "so  well  as  the 
t'other  gentleman;'*  .!.'U  he  began  backing  down  the 
grassy  slope  towards  tlie  break  in  the  rock,  when  two 
other  men  appeared,  coming  more  leisurely  down  the 
path. 

"  It's  too  much  throuble  for  ye,  Misther  Ladford,"  said 
one  of  the  advancing  men.  "  Mebbe  you  won't  mind  one 
Tim  Croonan,  that  hasn't  forgot  yerself,  anny  way,  nor 
isn't  likely  to,  ayther,  I'm  thinkinV 

Ladford  turned,  and,  at  a  steady  gait,  continued  his 
course  toward  the  water. 

"  The  old  fox  is  going  down  to  his  hole,"  said  the  one 
of  the  foremost  men  who  had  not  yet  spoken ;  and  both 
quickened  their  steps.  They  were,  at  this  moment,  at  about 
the  same  distance  from  the  man  they  were  foUowmg  aa 


P  n 


Hi 

^ 

J 


li 


fr:r' ' 

:       .5!', 

|'!r-: 

45G 


THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


I'-: 


'ill 


mmm^ 


I ; 


■*;'■ 


at  first ;  for,  though  they  were  coming  fiii^t,  yet  the  old 
smuggler  had  a  very  rapid  way  of  getting  on,  without 
api)ar(int  effort. 

lie  was  on  the  ledge  of  rock  that  sloped  down  athwart 
the  precipice ;  the  moon  was  lighting  up,  heautifully,  the 
western  side  of  the  picturesque  little  place,  and  part  of 
the  bottom,  while  it  left  in  dee])  shadow  that  to  the  east, 
and  the  landward  side,  as  if  they  were  yet  in  the  block 
from  which  the  others — with  their  rounds,  and  flats,  and 
hollows,  and  deep  crevices — had  been  cut. 

"  We've  got  good  liould  of  him  now,"  continued  the  last 
speaker,  as  I^adford  passed  along  this  ledge,  with  the 
moon  shining  broad  upon  his  back,  and  showing  even 
the  uncouth  outlines  of  his  dress.  He  turned  once  more 
upon  this  narrow  path,  despite  the  nearness  of  his  pur- 
suers ;  and  as  he  did  so,  the  man  who  had  just  spoken, 
drew  back  and  held  back  his  companion  with  his  hand, 
saying,  in  a  low  voice  : — 

"  Don't  crowd  him  !  Give  him  time,  and  hell  hang 
himself  all  the  harder." 

Croonan  had  been  by  no  means  crowding ;  and  he 
stood  still  very  readily. 

It  seemed  madness  for  the  man,  if  he  had  any  occasion 
to  fear  these  two  pursuers,  and  wislied  to  escape  them,  to 
loiter,  as  he  seemed  about  to  do,  in  his  flight.  At  the 
best  he  must  go  down,  and  tliere  was  no  other  way  u]> 
than  that  he  was  descending  ;  the  wall  which  his  path 
traversed  obliquely  downwards,  was,  except  that  path,  as 
sheer  and  steep  as  masonry.  So  was  the  western  side  of 
the  amphitheatre.  Below,  to  be  sure,  was  the  water,  and 
all  these  fishermen  take  to  the  water  like  seals — if  they 
have  but  something  to  put  between  them  and  it.  If 
he  could  reach  the  water — and  launch  his  punt,  moreover, 


ce  more 


A   STRANG KU   APPROACHES    LADI-ORD. 


457 


— before   both   or  either   of  these  two   could   overttike 
him :  then  what  ? 

"  I«  it  kind  or  neighborly  of  'ee  ?  "  asked  Ladford,  "  to 
come  about  the  business  you're  on  ? "  stopping  almost 
within  their  very  reach. 

The  first  speaker,  Croonan,  spoke  first,  now,  in  answer, 
and  leisurely,  too,  as  one  who  knew  well  that  the  man 
they  were  after  would  gain  nothing  in  the  end  by  stopping 
to  parley  here. 

"It's  meself  that's  afther  gc'^'  good  n^son  to  wish 
longer  acquainten  wid  ye,"  said  i.  ,  in  an  easy  way,  and 
not  verv  unkind,  either. 

"  Tliat's  not  it.  I  wouldn'  rini  aw'y  for  that,'*  said 
Ladford.  "I've  sid  the  time  — "  he  was  going  on  as 
if  he  saw  the  same  time  now ;  but  he  checked  himself 
instanily.  "  I'll  bide  off  fiom  a  quarrel,  and  I'll  never 
fight  except  to  save  myself,  and  then  not  harder  nor 
longer  than  what's  aneedun.  I've  mvA  enough  o'  quar- 
Hillin' _" 

"  Oh  !  ye're  a  precious  light  o'  the  jfospel,  I  suppose," 
interrupted  Croonan's  cx/mpanion.  "  Wh^n  ye're  done 
pj'aching,  ye'll  be  the  better  of  sthi'efi^hing  yer  U-gs  a  bit, 
in  case  ye'd  be  forgcttin'  what  to  do  wid  thim,  ^er  tot»j^e 
is  that  quick." 

The  former  smuggler  took  Sm  leave  of  fhem  in  /^te  a 
different  tone : — 

"  I'm  sorry  ye  want  to  hunt  me  down  ;  but  I  forgive 
'ee,"  said  he. 

"  We'll  give  you  more  rason  for  it,  afther  a  bit,  then," 
cried  Froyne. 

"  Ah  !  now,"  said  one  of  the  two  hindmost  men,  speak- 
ing in  a  restrained  voice,  as  if  afraid  of  being  .overheard, 
"  don't  be  too  hard  upon  a  poor  fellow  !  " 


t 


:h 


Ml 


458 


TIIK   iNKW   I'KIKST. 


If 


"  I'vo  110  ixridw  nijainst  tlio  mail,"'  said  C^-ooiiati,  wlioso 
heart  was  not  u  had  one,  "  iior  I  don't  wish  to  crowd  iiiii. 
Give  imi  a  chaiu'c,  Froyiu',  as  Mistlicr  Dug'iia  axiii  yc." 

"Thank  you  lor  your  good  will,  Air.  Dnjjjgan,"  said 
tilt'  'milled  man. 

Ladlord  now  hegan  again  his  descent  with  more  alac- 
rity ihan  hclore  ;  and  suddenly,  when  he  had  got  within  u 
third  of  the  di>lancc!  to  the  end  of  the  ledge,  he  set  his 
boat-hook  out  upon  llu^  toj)  of  one  of  the  rocks  ihat  stood 
about  half  way  helweeii  him  and  the  water,  and  lea[)cd 
olK 

"He's  killing  himself!"  cried  Froyne,  who  was  fore- 
most; and  the  two  stojjped  in  their  descent,  to  see  him 
fall  among  the  rocks  which  filled  about  half  the  bottom  of 
the  little  amphitheatre  on  the  west  side.  Of  course  it  was 
but  a  i'ew  seconds,  and  then,  instead  of  a  dull  cnish,  came 
a  splash  in  the;  water,  which  explained  the  manoMivre ; 
with  his  long  pole  he  had  made  such  a  Hying  leap  as  had 
saved  liiin  a  minute  or  so  of  slow  work. 

"  Now's  your  chance  man  !  Go  on,  Froyne  !  "  shouted 
Croonan.  "  Give  a  lep  with  yer  constable's  stick,  and 
bale  the  boat-hook."  Ihit  the  speaker  himself  was  less  in 
a  hurry.    '"  Asy,  now,  for  your  hilth,''said  Mr.  Duggan. 

t^  Come  on,  then,  and  let's  get  him  out  o'  the  wather, 
the  great  tom-cod  that  lu;  is  !  "  said  Froyne  the  constable, 
(for  so  it  was,)  "  till  FU  clap  my  ten  claws  upon  um." 

The  constable  ran  down  the  path  and  scrambled,  as  fast 
as  might  be,  over  the  rocks,  and  Croonan  followed ;  but 
long  before  they  got  half  way  over  them,  Ladfoi'd  was  in 
his  punt  and  sculling  silently  out,  and  with  a  little  sail  set 
sus  a  hare  sets  its  scut  over  its  back,  in  its  rac(^  lor    ife. 

"Thai's  a  game  two  can  play  at,"  eritnl  Froyne,  "and 
»,wo"i  make  more  nor  wan  at  it,  Fm  thinking." 


1,  \vli(V-;i» 
»\V(1  uin. 
xiu  yc." 
n,"  said 


>re 


illllC- 


wiiliin  a 
i  set  \m 
lat  stood 
I  losi[)ed 

i^aa  fore- 
see him 
otioin  of 
se  it  was 
sli,  came 
nocLivre ; 
,p  as  had 


'  shouted 


u 


k,  and 


OSS  111 


[isl 


piifjjgau. 


w 


oils 
him. 


atlier, 
table, 


il.  as  fast 
hI;  but 
Id  was  in 


V  sai 


I  set 


:ir. 


lie 


and 


A   STUANClKIl    AITROACIIKS    LADFOHD. 


I.')!) 


"  Ay !  my  b'y !  "  said  Croonau,  at  (ho  same  m()m<Mit, 
"  dt)  ye  lliink,  h;<vu  t  we  our  own  punt — ay,  and  the  oars 
locked  in  ?      Sec,  now,  wasn't  (hat  the  wise  way  ?" 

The  ('orc(>  of  two  stroicj:  men  soon  ur'rrd  the  boat  off 
into  the  water;  and — itractised  lisherman  as  Croonan,  at 
least,  was — how  Ion;:;  was  j)oor,  sin^^h'-handcd  Ladford — 
if  lie  had  been  the  best  lioatman  in  Ncwibinidland — to 
hold  his  own  a.;^.iinst  the  two? 

Their  piHu'auiion  had  mad(>  their  oars  secure  ;  for  the 
fu<2;itive  had  had  no  time  to  })i('k  or  pra(!tise  upon  h)cks  ; 
their  sail  was  tl-ere  all  safe,  and  I  hey  were  presently  fol- 
lowing. 

As  Frovnc  seated  himself  at  the  bow-oar,  whih'  Croo- 
nan  took  the  other  to  scull,  they  both  exclaimed,  ''  What 
water's  this  ?  " 

"  Arruiit  we  on  the  wrong  sid(;  iv  the  boat  someway  ?  " 
asked  the  constable. 

"Ah!  thin,"  said  Croonan,  "  w<;'ve  stove  the  boat 
someway,  that's  what  it  is,  wid  g<'tliitg  her  into  <he  wa- 
llier.  Til'  other  side  iv  it  's  not  so  dry  as  this,  if  ye'd 
try  it." 

"  Ah  !  thin,  it's  me  opinion  tliat  it's  that  i.irly  oiild 
blagyard  has  put  his  divil's  hoof  through  it,  or  his  boat- 
hook,  anny^  way." 

''  No  !  "  said  Ladford,  who  was  within  easy  he;      ig,  "  I 


couldn'  hav(}  the  heart  to  bivak  a  hole  in  the 


an 


lonest  punt ;  an 


d  I   haven'  juloncd  it  to  she. 


of 
And  he 


kept  steadily  on  his  course  towards  Castle- Bay. 

The  two  men  in  the  other  boat  were  in  troubl.  ;  but  all 
the  while  Croonan  kept  his  oar  working  instii    tively. 

"  Where's  this  it  is?  "  iiKpiired  Croonan.  I  think  it's 
the  plug  is  started;  whativer  made  me  have  one  in  it 
at  all  ?  " 


SI 


:| 


ilS., 


11 


400 


THE  NEW  rRh.ST. 


*:  f 


Wj    1 


il 


I 


i?     M     M 


M 


.  .■:.  i 


"  Whativer's  started,"  said  the  landsman,  "  I'm  thinkin 
there'll  be  small  odds  beehux  the  inside  and  the  outside  iv 
it,  shortly,  and  it's  meself  would  sooner  swim  in  clear  wa- 
thcr.     Can't  we  lift  the  boat  someway  ?  " 

"  Can't  ye  swim  and  pussh  the  boat  ?  "  cried  Mr.  Dug- 
gan,  (still  not  over  loud,)  as  he  and  his  companion 
laughed  at  the  expedition. 

"  Can't  you  put  your  fut  on  it  ?  "  called  Croonan.  "  Put 
yer  bi^  fut  over  the  hole !  " 

"  Sure,  can  I  put  my  fut  down  on  the  summit  o'  the 
say  ?  Do  ye  think  is  my  leg  long  enough  ?  "  inquired 
the  constable.  "  Do  ye  now  ?  An'  that's  what  I'd  have 
to  do,  to  keep  it  all  out." 

"  Clap  a  tole-pin  in,  then,  can't  ye  ?  See,  that's  wan 
that  ye're  rowing  against,"  cried  the  fisherman. 

"  Indade,  thin,  and  it's  against  my  will  that  I'm  rowin', 
just ;  and  how  will  I  find  the  hole,  more  nor  the  hole 
iv  the  ocean,  supposin'  I  could  start  the  tall-pin,  itself?" 

"  What'U  we  do  at  ahl,  thin  ?  "  said  Croonan,  again. 
"  Sure,  we'll  have  to  put  back  and  stop  it."  The  consta- 
ble, mean  time,  in  his  effort  at  the  thole-pin,  had  jerked 
himself  backward  into  a  wet  seat,  with  a  splash. 

"  There's  wan  o'  them  's  taken  good  advice,  anny  way," 
said  Mr.  Duggan,  laughing. 

The  constable  rose  up  from  his  misadventure,  and  as- 
sented to  Croonan's  proposal. 

"  Well,  thin,  I've  nothin'  to  say  agin  goin'  back,  for  it's 
goin'  to  the  botthom,  y'  are,  kapin'  on  this  way,  just,  an' 
indade,  I  think  there's  small  good  in  that,  anny  way,  to- 
wards bein'  on  dry  land,  and  only  washin'  yer  phiz  now 
and  agen,  wlien  ye'd  be  the  betther  iv  it." 

Ladford  kc'[)t  sihnilly  on,  in  the  bright  moonlight, 
without  a  word  or  sound,  except  of  the  steady  working 


^IK 


A  STRANGER  APrROACHES   LADFORD. 


4Gi 


again. 


>» 


for  it's 
ist,  an' 
ray,  to- 
iz  now 

Inliglit, 
lorking 


of  his  oar,  and  sight  and  sound  of  him  grew  farther  and 
fainter. 

"  Qui(;k,  thin !  an'  we'll  get  some  sorrt  iv  a  plug,  in  a 
jiffy,"  said  Croonan,  and  they  soon  finished  their  short  re- 
turn voyage  to  the  point  of  departure. 

"  I  tiiink  ye  may  eut  up  yer  constahle's  stick,"  sug- 
gested i\lr.  DugguM,  ''an'  make  a  ])lug  off  it." 

Here,  however,  they  staid  ;  for  there  was  no  stick  of 
any  sort  nearer  than  one  of  the  little  Hr-trees,  and  it  was 
some  time  before  one  of  these  could  be  got  at ;  and  then 
neither  man  had  a  knife  in  his  pocket  that  wouhl  cut  very 
readily  ;  and  it  was  a  long  time,  in  the  dark,  before  they 
could  do  any  thing  ;  and  at  length  they  gave  it  up. 

"  Will,  thin,"  said  Croonan,  the  good  feeling  of  his  na- 
tion coming  over  him,  and  his  countrymen's  aversion  to  a 
warrant,  even  in  the  hands  of  a  man  of  the  true  religion, 
"  I  don't  owe  um  any  gridge,  now  ;  but  yerself  set  me  on, 
Mike  Froyne.  I'm  glad  he's  not  goin'  t  •  Ix'  hung  this 
night,  anny  way." 

"  There's  time  enough,  yei,"  said  tlie  constable. 

"  Come,  come,  then,  man,  and  mix  a  little  something 
warrm  wid  the  watther  y'  are  afther  takin',"  said  Mr. 
Duggan,  "  an'  tell  us  what  ye  would  have  done  to  um, 
if  ye'd  got  um." 

There  was  a  pretty  litth;  beach,  that  we  have  men- 
tioned, occupying  about  half  the  back  part  of  the  bottom 
of  the  amphitheatre  ;  on  this  little  hide-away  place  they 
left  their  punt,  where  it  lay  like  something  the  water  had 
thrown  in  a  corner,  to  play  with  at  leisure.  The  men 
mounted  once  more  the  path  to  the  upper  air,  and  de- 
parted. 

Higher  up  in  the  heavens,  and  higher,  the  moon 
mounted;  and  here  and  there  around,  below, — as  if  they 


^1 


'<  ii 


n 


Im 

m' 

'''^^1 

^^1  i 

'i'H^H 

H  1 

lil  |it|H 

H 

:^;9 

B>' 

fl 

^■' ' 

*  ^^H 

■■)  1 

» 

B 

}■'.  p^^l 

■ 

0 


i 


'  It.  \ 


402 


TftV.  Wfe^  V^W\>^s% 


luul  \Hvn  thrust  ^Knvn,  until  'hoy  \V9'^wt  ti][>on  the  horizon, 
— lay,  'ooiiinp;  u]>  with  bright  thces,  ('l\vU(-\!4  of  the  lair, 
mild  nijrht.     'Vhv  s<>}V,  whoso  bosom  WtWiV^  by  night  as 
well  as  (lay,  urgtnl  \\\)  its  even  nvvunmirs  o\\  the  ear. 
All  else  was  still. 


N 


FATHli^R  DE  lUili:  DETERMINES.  AND  DEPAKTS.    4G3 


CHAPTER  L. 


FATHER   DE    BUIE    DETERMINES,  AND  DEPARTS. 


I  AYS  hiul  nfi;;iin  passed  hy ;  mnn's  minds  were 
fijvered  as  tlic  lime  for  Father  Nicholas's  trial 
dr(!\v  near ;  and  he  came,  and  went,  and  was  seen 
more  than  ever  ;  and  [)eople  eame  to  him. 

The  Roman  Calhoiie  j)ress  was  busy  arguing  ihat  "the 
whole  thing  was  the  oilspring  of  fanatieal  {)rejudice  ;  there 
was  not  one  link  connecting  the  history  of  the  young  girl 
who  had  been  lost  with  any  Roman  Catholic,  after  her 
leaving  her  father's  house ;  and  the  notion  of  her  having 
been  made  awfiy  with,  by  Roman  Catholics,  or  carried  off 
by  them,  would  be  absurd,  if  it  were  not  outrageous.  As 
well  might  it  be  said,  in  the  case  of  the  Protestant's 
house  that  was  blown  down,  at  Carbonear,  that  the  Cath- 
olics had  all  got  behind  it,  and  puffed  it  down  with  their 
breath." 

The  Government  and  the  "  Protestant  Faction  "  were 
"  warned  not  to  goad  a  peaceable  peoi)le  too  far  ;  there 
were  limits  beyond  which  patience  ceased  to  be  a  virtue  ; 
and  it  might  be  found  that  the  spirit  of  a  united  body, 
long  exasperated  and  trifled  with,  would  suddenly  rise,  in 
its  maiestv,  and  visit  the  senseless  ajr^rressors  with  terrifiG 
retribution.  If  the  last  indignity — of  confronting  the 
sacred  character  of  a  Catholic  priest  with  ihat  of  a  felon, 


n,i^' 


\i-    ,. 


464 


THE  NEW  TRIES r. 


1 1. 1'l 


■I  ■•  i 


!l        '        I' 


!i      I 


't; 


I ' , 


■  I 


pjinl()ii('<l  for  the  purpose  of  tliis  porsccMition — should  bo 
dared  ;  if  it  were  iittcinpted  to  wash  out  the  stains  upon 
that  felon's  is^ovy  hands,  to  (it  him  to  take  part  in  these  (h'hi- 
bive  forms  of  hiw,  it  might,  too  late,  he  found  impossible 
to  make  a  people, — who,  though  loyal,  almost  to  a  fjiult, 
had  an  intelligenec  and  (piiek  pcM'ceplion  of  right,  as  well 
as  a  ehivalrie  sense  of  honor  denied  to  the  coarser  Saxon, 
— blindly  a('ee|)t  a  monstrous,  hideous  wrong,  though 
labelled  justice." 

So  ran  the  printcnl  opinions  of  the  journals,  and  so  ran 
the  uttered  words  of  many  excited  groups  of  men  and 
women,  in  the  capital  and  in  the;  Hay;  but  ha[)pily  the 
public  peac(!  was  more  than  ev(a'  well  kept.  At  the 
sanu!  time,  as  a  measure  of  precaution,  a  detachment  of 
the  Royal  Newfoimdland  compani(!s,  to  the  number  of 
ninety  men,  was  posted  in  15ay-IIarbor,  under  the  com- 
mand of  Major  IJirnie.  Mv.  Wellon's  life  was  said  to  be 
in  danger;  but  he  was  not  harmed.  There  was  no  out- 
break of  any  kind,  and  no  injury  to  person  or  property. 

Fatlier  Nicholas  was  an  object  of  more  devout  reve- 
rence to  the  mass  of  those  of  his  faith,  many  of  whom 
every  day  uncovered  themsclvcfi,  and  went  down  on  thciir 
knees  as  he  passed,  much  as  they  would  have  done  to  a 
procession  of  the  Host.  To  everybody  he  was  an  object 
of  morf»  curiosity  than  ever,  in  the  streets. 

Father  Terence  neither  meddled  nor  made  with  the 
business ;  but  lived  his  quiet  life  as  before.  Another 
thing  lay  far  heavier  on  his  honest  heart. 

Some  time  had  passed  since  his  last  talk  with  Father 
De  Brie,  when  the  latter  came  in  again.  'I'his  time  his 
manner  wa^  rather  timid  and  hesitating. 

They  talked  (not  very  i-eadily)  of  different  things;  at 
length  the  younger  man  said  : — 


^1 


ith  the 
.nother 


inrs;   at 


FATHER  DE  BRIE  DETERMINES,  AND   hEI'ARIS.  405 

"I  li.'ivo  jjjivcii  iniiiiy  }i  tliou«jflit  to  wliat  ^on  siiid  tlio 
other  iii^ht,  Fatlirr  'I'citikm'." 

Father  Terciu'e  stiovt;  to  speak  cheerily:  "  VV^as  it 
a])()Ut  the  old  faith  it  was? — All  !  it's  jjfood  \<>  '^iva  inunny 
a  thon^'lit  to  the  old  way,"  said  he,  not  looking'  u|i. 

"  What  sort  of  faith  was  it  St.  Charles  Horrdineo  had? 
and  St.  ('atharine  SeiH'iisis  and  the  like  of  fliem?  Hadn't 
they  faith  then?  And  when^'s  St.  Thomas  and  St.  IJer- 
nard  ?  and  all  those  hless^Ml  men  in  ihi;  I^and  of  Saints — 
that's  Ireland  I  mean ;  iirst  and  foremost  St.  Patrick, 
and  iheni's  those  thi'ee  with  Col  at  the  he;iimiinj»  o'  them, 
ColnmhkiHe,  and  Cohnnhamis,  and  Cohunlia,  and  St. 
Malaehy,  and  St.  Finian,  and  St.  Ferj^ns,  and  St.  Col- 
nian,  and — and  tin;  I'est  o'  them,  in  the  early  days  of  that 
beantiful  island,  as  {Wwk  as  cajxilin  itself,  if  I'd  nse  a 
fi^^^nre,  not  to  speak  of  the  ^reat  St.  Lawrence,  of  !ny 
own  name, — (ami  family  most  likely,) — Arehhishop  of 
Dnhlin,  and  tru(;  to  his  conntry  a;^ain.->t  King  Henry  that 
time  ?  " 

'Ihe  good  man's  patrioti(!  ardor  had  led  him  a  litth;  olF 
from  liis  first  train  of  thonght  ;  hut  hrought  u  soliice  very 
much  needed  to  his  laboi-ing  heai't.  When  he  had  finished 
his  kindling  recitation,  he  looked  at  his  companion  with 
an  eye  that  sought  sympathy  of  zeal  and  admiration  ;  hut 
as  he  looked  at  the  ahsoihed,  earnest,  lofty  face  of  Father 
Ignatius,  the  glow  burned  out  like  an  unanswered  beacon- 
light,  and  he  sank  back  into  a  despondc-nl  recollection  of 
present  circumstances,  relieved  jx'rhap-  by  a  spiritual 
companionship  with  the  famous  men,  whose  memory  he 
had  summoned. 

"  F\ith(!r  Terence,"  said  the  other  at  length,  "  if  I  speak 
plainly,  I  know  that  I  shall  hurt  your  feedings,  kind  and 
patient  as  you  are ;  but  I  cannot  do  otherwi  e.  The 
•luesstion  wiLh  me  is  not  of  other  people,  l-ut  oi  myseli'. 

;.o 


I  ;il 


}^' 


^^^^H 

/-':  ^^^^^B 


IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


1.0 


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g   IAS    12.0 


iiil 


1.25  il.4 


<^ 


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^ 


r 


>  V 


ffiotographic 

Sciences 

Corporation 


4 


# 


V 


^x 


LV 


23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  MS80 

(716)  873-4503 


b   A 


^  a' 


,.v 


^\$' 


^ 


; 


O^ 


406 


THE  NKW   PRIEST. 


i-r  . 


l?,'i    ■' 


V      ,'i 


That  one  may  hiivv)  fuilh  in  Christ,  out  of  the  midst  of 
error  held  unwittingly  I  cannot  douht ;  God  forbid  !  But 
teaching  like  this — *  Ood  has  made  two  parts  of  Ill's 
Kinydom  ;  kept  the  domain  of  Justice  to  Himself  granted 
that  of  Mercy  to  His  Mother  !  '  The  Blessed  Virgin  to 
be  partner  in  robbing  God  !  Falsehood  added  to  the 
Creed,  falsehood  in  worship,  falsehood  in  practice,  false- 
hood in  priest,  falsehood  in  people  !  " 

The  elder  man  shook  his  head  as  he  ejaculated, — 
"  Sancta  Virgo  !  cunctas  hcereses^  sola,  interemisti* — 
That's  a  long  list  then,"  added  he,  turning  and  speaking 
sadly,  "and  a  dangerous  one  to  say.  I'm  astonished  at 
the  spirit  of  ye !  And  I  thought  ye'd  leave  the  Creed 
at  the  very  least." 

"  The  Creed, — but  1  speak  of  the  additions  made  to  it. 
Oh  !  Father  Terence,  the  conviction  is  striving  and  strug- 
gling in  me  for  mastery.  It  is  a  conviction,  that  this 
system  is  not  of  God.  This  strife  within  would  kill  me 
if  I  could  not  still  it.  JNIary-worship,  the  forced  Con- 
fessional, Relics,  Imng'.'s,  Violation  of  Sacraments,  Des- 
potism, Superstition,  j\Ien  abusing  the  power  and  character 
of  the  priesthood,  unquestioned,  people  murderous,  licen- 
tious, and  unimproved — nation  after  nation !  What  it 
has,  of  the  best — ah  !  it  still  has  much — is  in  spite  of — 
or  apart  from — oh !  what  lowering  and  misleading  in- 
fluences! For  common  morals:  are  others  'heretics,' 
ungodly,  loose?  See  what  this  Church  does!  ' 3Iar- 
ri'ige,  not  to  be  hroken  :  eitlier  party  adidterous,  if  di- 
vorced and  married: '  the  Pope  annuls  (for  money)  a 
marriage  f  of  years  (in  high  rank)  and  dispenses,  for  new 
marriage,  elsewhere  I  Does  God  so  ?  Marriage  within 
Degrees,   Incest :    the   Pope    dis[)enses :    uncle   marries 


!E»  >■ 


*  Holy  Virj^in!  all  heresies,  alone  thou  hast  destroyed. 

t  Lately,  Lady  ^lary  Hamiltoirs,  with  the  Prince  of  Monaco. — 1889. 


Qidst  of 
1!  But 
of  His 
granted 
iriiin  to 
1  to  the 
;e,  false- 

tisti* — 
ipeaking 
lished  at 
le  Creed 

ide  to  it. 
id  Strug- 
that  this 
kill  me 
led  Con- 
its,  Des- 
haracter 
us,  liceu- 
What  it 
Dite  of — 
idiiig  ill- 
heretics,' 
*  Mar- 
s,  if  di- 
Qoney)  a 
,  for  new 
rje  within 
marries 


aco. 


-1889. 


,,y 


FATHKR  D1-:  BUIE  DETERMINES,  AND  DEPARTS.  407 

niece*: — or  worse!  (This  for  princes  and  tliousands  of 
pounds.)      Is  this  lying?  " 

The  speaker  paced  the  floor  in  the  most  intense  excite- 
ment, turning  to  this  side  and  that,  as  lie  uttered  these 
questions,  as  if  he  looked  across  the  world  and  called  tor 
aiis^'^er.  !Stop[»ing  suddenly  in  front  of  tiie  elder  priest, 
who  with  a  troubled  i'ace  was  looking  on  the  floor,  he 
exclaimed, — 

"  Is  it  NOT  so  ?  One  word  of  the  Biblo  I — one  word 
of  Holy  Scripture  !  One  word  for  images  !  One  word  for 
prayer  to  Saints !  One  word  for  Mary's  Kingdom  or 
Empire  of  Grace  !  One  word  for  Purgatory  !  One  word 
for  our  awful  takinjr  of  men's  souls  out  of  their  bodies 
and  standing  accountable  for  them  !  Has  any  part  of  the 
whole  fabric  any  authority  or  countenance  in  the  Word 
of  God?  Or  in  history,  for  ag  !S  and  ages?  Which  one 
of  the  old  Fathers  writing  about  their  religion,  defending 
it,  explaining  it,  has  one  word  ?  Which  one  of  the  old 
Liturgies?  Where  was  the  Church  like  this  at  first? 
Oh  !  I  was  in  the  Catholic  Church  !   I  had  all  truth  !  " 

He  paced  the  room  again,  his  companion  being  silent. 

"  If  this  is  not  true,  what  is  it  ?  and  what  am  I  ?  "  he 
exclaimed  again,  holding  up  his  clasped  hands.  He  then 
sank  upon  his  knees,  and  remained  for  a  while  in  prayer. 

On  rising,  with  his  eyes  lull  of  tears,  he  saw  that 
Father  Terence  was  engaged  in  the  same  way,  and  when 
the  old  man  h.id  ended  his  holy  occupation,  the  younger 
grasped  his  hand  and  thanked  him  heartily. 

"  Forgive  me.  Father  Terence,"  he  said,  "  if  I  have 
shocked  you.  It  is  no  excuse  that  I  have  torn  the  flesh 
of  my  own  soul,  in  the  struggle  that  is  going  on  in  me ;  I 
have  no  right,  because  /  siifler,  to  make  others  suffer 
also;  but  it  will  be  excuse  for  me  with  you,  that  there 

*  Lately,  the  King  of  Italy's  brother  to  his  Hoiiaparte  niece. — 188^. 


468 


THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


'tm 


h 


!      I 


f 


has  been  and  is  no  feeling  in  me  towards  yourself,  but 
one  of  love  and  honor." 

"  Say  nothing  of  it,"  said  the  kindly  elder,  but  in  the 
saddest  way,  "  I  care  nothing  for  my  own  feelings ;  but 
I  do  care  to  see  ye  going  the  way  y'are.  Is  there  no 
help  for  ye  ?  " 

Evening  was  near ;  the  day  was  drawing  off,  and  night 
had  not  yet  set  her  watch;  but  while  the  silent  shades 
were  coming  in  and  taking  up  their  places  in  the  inner 
and  farther  parts  of  the  room,  and  seemed  to  be  throwing 
a  dark  and  mournful  tinge  upon  the  very  spoken  words 
as  well  as  on  the  walls  and  furniture,  gradually  a  bright- 
ness broke  on  the  far  off  hills,  as  if  through  a  rift  in  a 
leaden  sky.  Father  O'Toole  was  last  to  have  his  eyes 
drawn  aside  in  that  direction. 

The  younger  had  caught  its  earliest  ray,  and  had  his 
eyes  fixed  upon  it. 

"  Oh  yes,  there  is  help  for  me  in  my  God,"  answered 
he.     "  You  do  forgive  me  ?  " 

"  Oh !  then,  what  have  I  against  ye  ?  Sure  it's  not 
worth  the  while  me  bringing  in  my  own  small  matters  of 
feelings  betwixt  you  and  Ilim." 

As  Father  O'Toole  said  this,  Father  De  Brie  thanked 
him  more  heartily  than  before ;  then  bade  him  "  Good- 
bye ! " 

"  Stay  then  ! "  said  the  older  Priest,  "  are  ye  sure  isn't 
it  something  about  the  wife  and  the  world,  it  is,  now  ?  " 

He  asked  this  in  a  tone  of  sorrowful  doubt ;  the  shad- 
ows of  the  evening,  which  was  drawing  on,  clothing  his 
plain,  kindly  features  with  a  softening  shade.  The  room 
in  which  they  were  grew  darker.  Mr.  De  Brie  an- 
swered : — 

"  I'm  sure  that  it  was  no  regret  or  desire  for  happiness, 


FATHER   DK   VAilE   DETERMINES,   AND   DEPARTS.  469 


urself,  but 

but  in  the 

lings;  but 

there  no 

and  night 
;nt  shades 

the  inner 
!  throwing 
ken  worda 
r  a  bright- 
i  rift  in  a 
e  his  eyes 

td  had  his 

answered 

ire  it's  not 
natters  of 

e  thanked 
a  "Good- 
sure  isn't 
now?" 
the  shad- 
Dthing  his 
The  room 
Brie  an- 

lappiness, 


or  desire  for  old  associations  in  the  world : — that  I  am 
Bure  of; — but  it  was  under  God  my  wife's  true  love,  and 
her  strong  woman's  faith  and  the  straightforward  reason- 
ings of  her  woman's  conscience,  that  conquered  me  ; — and 
a  sense  of  my  forsaken  duty !  "  (He  took  a  turn  in  the 
room  and  came  back ;  the  old  priest  sitting  deeply  agi- 
tated and  breatiiing  hard.)  "  It  was  the  homely  speech 
of  a  fisherman  that  first  brought  me  face  to  face  with  the 
question :  of  this  Skipper  George,  whose  daughter  has 
been  stolen, — or  lost.  A  child's  tongue  carried  on  the 
argument.  Pater,  Domine  cceli  et  (errce,  abscondisti  hac 
a  sapietitibus  et prudetitibus,  et  revelasti parvulis"  * 

"  Oh ! "  said  Father  Terence,  hoarsely  and  brokenly, 
"  don't  be  unpriested  and  cast  out ! — ^on't,  for  the  love 
of  God!" 

In  a  low  voice  to  himself,  he  said : — 

"Ah !  if  I'd  taken  heed  to  um  that  time  when  he 
wanted  to  speak  to  me  about  her  being  there ! " 

He  sat  as  if  ready  to  wheel  round  his  chair  away  from 
his  companion. 

"  Ay,  Father  Terence,"  said  the  latter,  in  a  voice  of 
great  feeling;  "you  don't  know  what  the  loss  of  your 
love  would  be  to  me." 

The  old  Priest  turned  away ;  but  as  he  turned,  said,  in 
a  low  voice, — 

"  Ah  !  my  son !  how  will  I  ever  take  that  from  ye, 
more  than  a  father  will  forget  his  child, — whatever  hap- 
pens him  ?  " 

"  I  shall  never  forget  you  ! — but  why  do  I  linger? 
— Father  Terence,  I  shall  give  this  up.  Yes,  I  shall 
give  this  up !  and  then,  if  I  must  go  through  every  terri- 
ble ordeal  of  scorn,  and  hatred,  and  loathing. — must  be 
hunted  by  the  fury  of  my  brethren  in  the  priesthood,— 

*  St.  Matt.  xi.  25. 


t        i!  I 


470 


THE   NKW  PKIKST. 


ii 


IM-- 


i> )    , 


m.isf  hnvo  my  |»nrstly  character  torn  oft'  mo,  bit  by  l)if, 

— \\\o  loMsiirc  ri\7A>il — my  n.'imo  |)iit  out  in  (Mirsiii^, I 

am  n'july.  To  mo  il  comos  in  fho  w.-iy  of  (hi(y  to  uwvl 
ami  boar  tli(«  worst.  The  soldier  is  (hnist  (broii^r|,,  .„i(l 
manjrl,.,!.  aixl  tratnpIcMl,  still  liviiiir,  under  borscs'  feet,  and 
till  bis  blood  and  bre.itb  be  spent,  still  i^lories  in  tbe 
(•aus«»  for  wliieb  Iw  sullers.  T  sball  not  <'onrt  suflerin^r  or 
sbame,  but  if  tbey  come,  witb  (Jod's  belp  I  can  bear 
Ibem!" 

"  Tbey  don't  do  tbat  way  witli  priests,  now,"  said  Fa- 
thvr  Teivnee,  wbo  sat  wilb  bis  back  still  turned,  and 
spoke  as  if  be  seareely  tbougbt  of  wbat  bo  said.  "Tb« 
worst  is  publisbinuc  from  tbo  altar,  in  every  cburcb  ;  but 
ye'll  never  eonie  to  tbat." 

"Yes,  it  must  oome.     You  spoke  of  tbc  old  way:  l' 
sball  jro  back  to  il, — from  ibis  day  my  plaoe  is  empty  !  " 

IIo  kneeled  <lown  at  tbo  side  of  tbe  old  Priest,  and 
bowed  bis  bead,  and  was,  at  lirst,  silent  for  a  wbile,  tlien 
said, — 

"  If  r  bavo  ever  lun-t  your  feelin;;s,  Fatber  Terence, 
in  any  tiling  but  tins,  I  ask  your  pardon,  bumbly  ;"  (tbe 
old  man  eouid  not  vspeak  ;  his  voiee  was  eboked) — "and 
now  I  go.     I  left  f/i<'  better  way  ;   I  go  back  I  " 

Tbe  younger  j>riest  rose  slowly  from  bis  knees,  tben, 
grjLsping  tbe  other's  band,  pressed  it;  and  walking  softly 
to  th(^  door,  departtvl. 

"  Slay !  Slay  I "  was  called  afler  bim,  but  be  did  not 
turn. 

lie  mounted  bis  horse  at  tbe  gate,  and  rode  rapidly 
tbrougb  tbe  town  u[)  toward  the  river-bead.  An  liour 
later  be  knocked  at  Mr.  AVellon's  door. 

"  Could  you  give  so  much  time  and  trouble  to  me  as 
to  go  down  wilb  me  a  little  way  ?  "  be  said,  after  a  hur- 
ried salutation. 


KATIIKR   l)i;   UUIK    DK TK UMIXKS,  AND   DKPAUTS.  .171 


then, 
softly 


apidly 
hour 


The  dorjiyninn  iitonco  comi)!!*'!!,  ji-kiii;;  no  qmsiious  ; 
fop  ho  ini;j;hl  hiivo  s(M!H  how  occiipioil  the  othrr  was.  So 
lUi\  (wo  walked  lo^^cthi-r  silciilly  ;  and  proplo  silently 
h)oU<Ml  at  thcni  and  looked  afler  them. 

It  was  not  far  to  Mrs.  llanv's  honse  ;  and  Father  Do 
lirie  led  the  way  slrai;;hl  to  it.  All  was  .silent  there;  and 
when  ho  had  knocked,  and  for  a  inoinent  no  one  canu;,  ho 
turned  to  his  companion  anxiously  and  said,  *'  She  is  not 
sick  ?  " 

TliO  English  servant  camo  to  tluj  door,  and,  seeing  wIjo 
was  there,  eould  scarcely  speak  or  move. 

They  stood  in  lh<^  littK;  parlor  to  which  tlicy  were 
shown  ;  and  thoufjjh  Father  J)el)ree  did  not  ehanj^e  his 
place,  yet  his  eyes  turned  sh)wly  from  one  of  the  j)retty 
little  articles  of  woman's  taste  to  another,  and  quietly 
filled  with  tears.  Presently  a  hurri<'d  and  m»e(pial  step 
was  heard  from  the  chaml)er  overhead,  down  the  stairs, 
and  Mrs.  Harre,  in  her  black  dress,  pale  and  trembling, 
not  lifting  up  her  vyvt^,  stood  in  the  room.  Young  as  she 
was,  her  dark  hair  had  begun  to  havi;  a  gloss  upon  it 
(perhaps  a  glory)  that  di<l  not  come  of  years. 

She  had  not  felt  the  breath  of  that  cold  air, 

Tho  chill,  chill  wiiul  from  o'er  the  graves 
And  from  the  cold,  dam|)  tomb; 
Tho  wind  that  frosts  the  hair  it  waves, 
And  pales  the  cheek's  tVesh  bloom ; 
That  bitter  wind  that  we  must  face 
When  down  life's  hill  we  go  apace, 
And  evening  spreads  its  gloom; — 

That  liad  not  breathed  upon  her. 

"  Mr.  Wellon  !  I  call  you  to  witness,  before  God,"  said 
Father  De  Brie,  "that  I  pray  the  forgiveness  of  this 
blessed,  blessed  woman ;  whom  I  may  not  call  my  wife, 
for  I  forsook  her  !  " 


472 


THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


''-■i 


■jiiKj,: 


m 


i  U\  ■ 


S    1    ■  . 

n  ■  ■ 


/^  :,1 


Bf'foro  thn  words  were  done,  a  sudden  burst  of  life 
nnd  love  seemed  to  fill  up  the  room ;  there  was  a  little 
r.ish  of  gentlen«'ss,  and  Oii !  a  warm,  trembling  arm  went 
round  his  neck  ;  a  tender  forehead  was  bowed  down  U{)on 
his  shoulder ;  a  sweet,  low  murmuring  was  felt  against 
his  heart,  and  scarcely  heard — 

''  You  are  my  own,  own  husband  !  " 

"What  was  there  in  the  world  to  them  beside  each 
other  in  that  loni;  moment  ?  Their  tears  flowed  down 
together ;  and  then  he  ilrew  back  a  little,  and  with  two 
hurried  hands  smoothed  away,  more  than  once,  to  either 
side,  the  hair  from  tiuit  wife's  forehead ;  then  drew  her  to 
his  bosom,  that  had  not  felt  such  dearness  for  so  long, 
kissed  her  true  lips,  and  said — 

"  If  ever  God  gave  treasure  to  a  man  unworthy,  it  was 
here !     My  wife  !     My  wife ! " 

After  another  silence,  he  said,  turning  to  the  friendly 
clergyman, — 

"  J  may  open  my  heart  to  God  before  you  ?  " — and 
they  kneeled  down,  and  at  first  without  speech,  then  in 
low,  broken  bursts,  ana  tl^f:^  in  a  full  stream  of  molten 
music  \ie  poured  forth  prayer  for  the  forgiveness  of  the 
Prodigal,  who  had  wandered  in  a  far,  strange  country, 
and  fed  on  husks ;  for  blessing  on  that  dear  woman,  and 
on  all  people.  Other  voices, — of  his  wife  ;  of  the  Eng- 
lish priest,  whose  nature  was  so  strong  and  regular, — 
inarticulate,  but  expressing  feeling  irrepressible,  from 
time  to  time  rose  and  fell  with  his. 

Little  Mary,  wondering,  still  and  tearless,  came  and 
stole  in  between  the  two  whose  child  she  was ;  and  in  his 
prayer  her  father  put  his  arm  about  her. 

The  words  of  that  prayer  could  not  be  written  down 
by  hand ;    the   spirit  only  could   go   along   with   them. 


m 


f.;' 


f 


'9t  of  IHe 
is  a  little 
arm  went 
own  upon 
rlt  agiiinsi 


;side  each 
wiiil  down 
I  with  two 
,  to  either 
rew  her  to 
ir  so  long, 

rthy,  it  was 

he  friendly 

)u?"— and 
3h,  then  in 

of  molten 
less  of  the 
ye  country, 

onian,  and 
the  Eng- 

rcgular, — 

ible,  from 

came  and 
and  in  his 

tten  down 
vith   them. 


FATIU: II   l)K    BRIF.    DETKHMIXKS,  AND    DK I'AUTS.  473 

P<'rha|):^    they    have    been    written    somewhere.      Then, 
cahnly,  v/lifu  they  stood  u;),  he  said  : — • 

*' Now,  Ilt'lcn,  shall  I  liiiish  this  unfinished  work,  for 
which  you  have  so  louff  been  praying,  before  1  join  my 
life  with  yours  again  ?  Shall  I  first  go  to  the  chief  INIin- 
ister,*  and  jiublicly  recant  my  error  and  profess  my  faith? 
Th«'i       .1  schooner  going  from  New-Harbor." 

" 'j  .)u  won't  go  now,  will  you?"  asked  the  clergyman, 
who  had  no  ties  of  marriage*. 

The  wife  who  for  so  long  had  had  no  husband, — the 
woman  whose  strong  love  had  been  put  away  from  its 
own  proper,  sat^red  object,  to  whom  she  was  Jlesh  of  his 
fles/i,  and  hune  of  his  bom;, — her  own  loved,  her  own 
wedded,  her  own  lost, — looked  up  at  once  and  answered, 
«  Yes,  if  you  will— I'll  wait." 

He  held  her  close  to  his  heart  awhile,  then  parted  from 
her  tenderly,  and  went  away  v.^ith  Mr.  Wellon.  Early 
next  day  they  started  together  for  New-Harbor. 

♦  Newfoundland,  in  that  day,  was  attached  to  the  Diocese  of  Nova 
Scotia;  the  Bishop  lived  at  Halifax. 


-171 


TH'<'  NEW  PRIEST. 


CHAPTER  LI. 


THE   TRIAL. 


'It, 


t: ' 


|OURT-DAY  drew  near,  and  public  interest  in- 
creased accordingly.  The  speculation  of  the 
public  was  abundant, — the  more  so  for  the 
mystery  that  clothed  the  government  case.  It  was  said 
that  Mrs.  Calloran  had  been  discharged,  for  want  of  evi- 
dence to  show  any  thing  ;ig;iiiist  her.  Violent  partisans 
everywhere  reported  that  siie  had  been  llrsc  tampered  with 
to  turn  King's  evidence;  but  had  refused  "to  go  nigb 
wan  o'  their  courts  to  testify,  as  they  call  it,  good  or  bad ; 
no,  not  if  they  take  the  life  of  me  itself."  What  there 
might  be  against  the  Priest,  no  man  could  say ;  but  it  was 
generally  affirmed,  by  those  of  his  own  religion,  that  the 
government  would  break  down  at  the  trial. 

The  reader  need  not  be  reminded  what  excitement 
there  must  have  been  in  Peterport,  and  generally  among 
the  population.  The  Stipendiary,  Mr.  Naughton,  (who 
knew  something  of  the  inner  things  of  law,)  assured  Mr. 
Wellon,  "  They'll  never  be  able  to  convict  him,  sir  ; " 
but  many  plain  people  said,  "  They've  murdered  her,  too  ; 
and  they  ought  to  be  hunix  for  it." 

Ladford,  meantime,  (for  so  we  call  him  still,)  was  not 
at  home.  He  had  sent  a  short  note  to  Mr.  Wellon  from 
Castle-Bay,  from  which  it  appeared  that  it   had   been 


,M  ,  : 


TIIK  TRIAL. 


475 


;erest  in- 

1   of  the 

for   the 

was  said 

it  of  evi- 

partisans 

ui'cd  with 

go  nigb 

or  bad ; 

lat  there 

ut  it  was 

,  that  the 

ccitement 
ly  among 
m,  (who 
ured  Mr. 
m,  sir  ;  " 
her,  too ; 

I  was  not 
lion  from 
ad   been 


made  necessary  for  the  poor  man  to  hide  again,  but  that 
he  would  be  heard  from  wiien  lie  was  needed;  and  .Nince 
that  time  no  word  iiad  eomc  from  him.  His  pardon  was 
all  ready  for  him,  but  he  did  not  come. 

Up  to  the  last  day, — up  to  the  last  moment  of  the  day 
before  the  one  appointed,  he  was  looked  for,  but  he  did 
not  eonie ;  and  there  were  no  certain  tidings  from  him. 
The  nearest  approach  that  could  be  made  to  him  was 
this:  In  New-Harbor  there  had  been  a  man  called 
Lane,  and  there  supposed  to  be  a  deserter  from  a  man-of- 
war, — otherwise  answering  to  the  description  of  Ladfbrd, 
— he  had  shipped,  with  others,  in  the  schooner  Ice- 
Blink,  for  a  short  trip  along  shore,  and  the  schooner 
had  not  since  been  heard  from ;  and  great  fears  were 
felt  for  her.  Some  p(;ople  sternly  said  tljat  God's 
judgment  had  come  d  jwn  upon  him  ;  others  again 
began  to  mutter  that  he  had  had  foul  play.  Meantime, 
80  great  was  the  excitement,  and  so  strong  was  the  pub- 
lic pressure,  that  it  would  not  iiave  been  safe  to  have  ad- 
journed the  trial.  "  It  was  thought  best "  (the  Attorney- 
general  told  Mr.  Wellon)  "  to  call  the  case  on^  and  if,  at 
the  last  moment,  the  chief  witness  did  not  come,  then  the 
crown-counsel  should  throw  it  up,  in  open  court.  If  the 
priest  were  convicted  on  this  charge,  he  would  be  safe 
foi"  a  trial  for  murder,  when  that  body  should  he  found" 

In  the  late  evening  came  intelligence  from  a  vessel  just 
arrived  in  St.  John's,  that  she  had  passed  outside  a  brig 
having  the  Ice-Blink's  crew  on  board. 

The  morning  of  the  Fifteenth  opened  clear  and  bright ; 
the  day  went  clearly  and  brightly  on ;  but  such  was  the 
excitement  and  occupation  of  the  town  tha*  few  could 
have  heeded  the  face  of  the  fair  sky. 

The  judges  (Chief  Justice  and  the  two  Assistants)  had 


.470 


THE   NKW   PllIEST. 


m 


1 1 


h- 


^.  i  ■ 


boon  punctual  to  the  day,  and  were  all  here.  "Whoever 
knows  the  trmnpeters  and  javrlin-mt'U  of  the  English 
Circuit,  and  tiic  tremendous  authority  of  the  IJeneii,  and 
h)ng  array  of  learned  and  practised  members  of  the  liar, 
must  change  his  notions  to  adapt  them  here.  There  was 
as  good  a  clianct;  of  getting  justice  here,  however,  as  any 
where  in  England. 

A  lai'ge  storehouse, — furnished  with  two  long  deal 
tables,  lor  the  judges  and  lawyers,  respectively ;  with 
mahogany  chairs  for  the  former;  such  as  couhl  be  had 
for  the  latter ;  and,  for  the  public,  benches  and  boxes,  as 
far  as  they  could  go, — served  for  the  court-room ; — and 
there  was  Father  Nicholas  Crampton,  and  Mrs.  Uridget 
Calloran,  also,  in  the  custody  of  the  officer,  to  stand  their 
trial. — Skipper  George  was  not  present ;  Father  Terence 
sat  there,  grave  and  jjerplexed-looking ;  and  not  far  from 
him  sat  Mr.  Wellon,  thoughtful  and  anxious,  and  looking 
often  to  the  door. 

Proclamation  was  made;  commissions  read;  all  formal 
ceremonies,  (considerably  abridged  in  number  and  amount 
from  the  "  home  "-standard,)  tediously  gone  through  with ; 
lengthened,  perhaps,  purposely,  in  the  doing;  for  the  rest 
of  the  day  nothing  was  done  but  filling  up  the  panel  of 
the  jury;  there  WiH  no  challenge  to  the  array  or  to  the 
polls,  by  the  accused  or  by  Government ;  then  the  court 
adjourned  to  the  next  day. 

Next  morning  news  came  at  last  to  Mr.  Wellon  and  to 
the  Attorney-General,  that  the  brig  with  the  Ice-Blink's 
men  on  board  was  signalled  off  the  Narrows.  Their 
hearts  were  lightened.  A  boat  with  a  stout  crew  and  an 
intelligent  messenger  was  sent  across  the  bay  to  bring 
Ladford,  if  he  were  there. 

The  Attorney-General  opened  for  the  Crown ;  the  atten- 


l|  ■^: 


THE  TKIAL. 


477 


Hioever 
Knglish 
u'lt,  and 
he  IJiir, 
lere  was 
,  as  any 

ng  deal 
y ;   with 

be  had 
»oxes,  as 
II ; — and 

liridget 
md  their 
Terence 
far  from 

looking 

P  formal 
amount 
li  with ; 
the  rest 
anel  of 
to  the 
le  court 

and  to 
Blink's 
Their 
and  an 
0  bring 

e  atten- 


tion of  the  throe  or  four  iiundred  people  witliin  the  walls 
of  the  Court  room  was  very  closely  iield  ;  and,  every  now 
and  then,  a  sympathetic  heave  or  swell  seemed  to  be  com- 
inunieated,  (witiiout  any  manitest  connection,)  from  the 
mueh  larger  multitude  without;  as  the  swell  of  the  far- 
away sea  pulses  in  one  of  tho>e  iidand  pools  in  the 
southern  islands; — but  there  was  no  disturbance.  Within, 
appartMitly  two  thirds  of  the  people  were  Protestants ; 
without,  the  greater  part  Roman  Catholics.  The  orderly 
spirit  was,  perhaps,  encouraged  by  the  known  and  evident 
provision  of  soldiers  and  of  special  constables,  that,  to  the 
number  of  seventy,  had  been  sworn  in  ffom  different 
parts  of  the  Bay. 

Mrs.  Calloran  looked  frequently  sit  Father  Nicholas, 
being  herself  much  excited  ;  he  always  sat  quietly,  only 
sometimes  looking  a  little  impatient,  or  smiling  slightly, 
and  almost  sneering,  at  some  parts  of  the  argument  of 
the  counsel. 

Father  Crampton  begged  leave  to  say  "  that  he  would 
not  waste  the  time  of  the  Court,  or  put  the  counsel  for  the 
Crown  to  trouble,  to  prove  the  fact  of  Miss  Barbury's 
being  missing ;  he  admittcnl  it ;  he  had  no  doubt  of  it. 
Nor  would  he  require  that  it  should  be  proven  that  she 
disappeared  on  the  afternoon  or  evening  of  the  fifteenth 
day  of  August  at  the  time  charged  by  the  Government 
from  that  point  he  should  deal  with  the  witnesses  as  they 
were  called  on." 

When  Mr.  Urston  and  James  were  called,  successively, 
to  show  that  Father  Crampton  had  expressed  himself 
strongly  disappointed  and  displeased,  he  not  only  made  no 
use  of  the  witnesses,  after  the  Government  had  done  with 
them,  but  admitted,  freely,  the  substance  of  the  expres- 
sions and  the  character  of  his  own  feelings,  with  a  frank- 


^« 


^*! 


;>* 


478 


'^HE  NEW  PRIEST. 


ness  that  very  likelj'  iiad  a  favorable  influence  upon  the 
jury.  It  was  understood  that  Mrs.  Barre  was  to  be 
called  to  testify  to  some  passages  in  the  priest's  former 
life  ;  and  as  her  story  was  now  pretty  generally  known, 
there  was,  doubtless,  abundant  anxiety  in  those  present. 
This  would  explain  the  interest  manifested  by  the  specta- 
tors in  such  ladies  as  were  there  watching  the  progress 
of  the  trial ;  but  whatever  were  the  method  intended  by 
the  Attorney-General,  she  was  not  summoned,  at  least  in 
the  earlier  stages  of  the  proceeding ;  nor  was  a  certain 
Englishman,  accidentally  arrived  a  few  weeks  before,  who, 
it  was  said,  had  recognized  Father  Crampton  as  one  who 
had  been  guilty  of  crime,  elsewhere. 

So  the  witnesses  succeeded  each  other  in  procession 
quiet  and  orderly,  with  slight  interruption.  In  declining 
to  ask  Jesse  Barbury  any  questions,  the  Priest  said  that 
he  had  no  wish  nor  interest  to  contradict  or  meddle  with 
his  testimony ;  at  which  a  flush  of  bashful  pride  went 
over  Jesse's  honest  face,  (and,  no  douot,  over  Isaac  Maf- 
fen's)  ;  and  the  witness  ventured  a  glance,  of  his  own 
accord,  at  the  Attorney-General,  as  if  Jesse  felt  that  time 
and  skill  had  been  well  bestowed  in  drawing  out  evidence, 
which,  when  drawn  out,  stood  thus  unimpeachable. 

The  Attorney- General  did  not  hurry  himself  or  his 
witP'^  ._  ;  but  Father  Crampton  let  them  go  unques- 
tioned, and  so  did  Mrs.  Calloran's  counsel,  as  if  they 
acted  in  concert.  The  first  change  of  proceeding  was 
with  Mr.  Bangs.  In  his  direct  examination,  whose  re- 
dundancy the  learned  prosecutor  was  at  no  pains  to  check, 
he  gave  an  account  of  his  seeing  tlie  woman  carried  down 
from  Mr.  Urston's  by  two  others.  Mr.  Wellon  described 
the  finding  of  the  cap,  and  identified  the  one  produced. 
Mrs.  Barbury  swore  that  it  was  her  daughter's.     Gilpin 


upon  the 
vas  to  be 
t's  former 
ly  known, 
e  present, 
he  specta- 
3  progress 
tended  by 
it  least  in 

a  certain 
fore,  who, 
}  one  who 

irocession 
declining 
said  that 
iddle  with 
ride  went 
tsaac  Muf- 

his  own 
that  time 
evidence, 
le. 
}lf  or  his 

unques- 
3  if  they 
ding  was 
vhose  re- 
to  check, 
ied  down 
described 
aroduced. 
Gilpin 


THE  TRIAL. 


479 


gave  his  account  of  the  prayer-book,  and  of  Mrs.  Callo- 
ran's  and  Father  Crampton's  suspicious  conduct  in  regard 
to  it.  Then  Captain  Nolesworth  deposition  was  put  in, 
without  question  from  the  accused.  Then  Mr.  Bangs  was 
recalled,  and  described  his  visit  to  the  Nunnery  ; — how 
"  he  went  in,  'th  the  holy  priest,  there,  an'  saw  all  about 
it,  an'  where  they  took  their  meals,"  and  so  forth  ; — with 
which,  in  spite  of  the  solemnity  of  the  occasion,  both  the 
court  and  others  seemed  to  be  amused.  After  the  Govern- 
ment had  done  with  him,  Father  Crampton,  premising 
that  he  was  no  lawyer,  and  begging  that  the  answers 
might  be  as  short  and  plain  as  possible,  asked  him  whether 
he  had  been  invited  to  go  in.  "  I  undertook  to  go  in,  o' 
myself,  first,  I  guess,"  said  Mr.  Bangs,  "  an'  then  you 
come  along,  an'  finally,  you  concluded  to  take  me  in,  I 
b'lieve."  "  Did  I  invite  you  to  the  room  where  the 
sick  person  was  ?  "  "  Wall,  I  guess  ye  did,  sir."  "  Did 
I  make  any  difference  between  that  and  the  rest  ?  "  "I 
dono's  ye  did."  "  Do  you  know  that  I  did  not  ?  "  "I 
guess  ye  didn't."  "  Did  I  seem  at  all  afraid,  in  show- 
ing you  that  room  ?  "  "I  guess  ye  didn't."  "  Did  I 
hurry  you  away  from  it  ?  "  ''  No,  sir  ;  I  can't  say's  ye 
did  ;  only  when  the  holy  virgins,  there,  or  what  not, 
snickered  out  at  my  hat,  I  s'pose  ye  was  ruther  put  out." 
"  But  did  I  show  any  anxiety  ?  or  did  I  hurry  you 
away  ?  "  "  No,  sir."  "  That  will  do,  sir,"  said  Father 
Nicholas,  "  it  is  to  be  observed  that  that  was  the  room  in 
which  the  girl  lay  whom  I  am  charged  with  having  kid- 
napped." 

Ladford  did  not  come  ;  the  Attornev-General  appeared 
anxious.  He  said  that  an  important  witness  for  Govern- 
ment had  not  arrived,  though  constantly  expected ;  it  was 
very  embarrassing,  as  that  witness  could  testify  to  the 


480 


THE  NEW   PRIEST. 


t'  ^ 


actual  prcsoncc  of  I\Iiss  Barbiuy  in  the  Nunnery,  and  in 
that  room  in  which  the  siciv  younj;  woman  was  seen  ;  but 
he  would  go  on,  expecting  to  su})ply  the  dehciency  very 
soon. 

Gilpin  was  recalh'd,  and  gave  his  evidence  about  the 
conversation  overheard.  Jn  the  cross-examination,  Father 
Nicholas  asked  him  :  "  Did  you  not  say  ihat  I  distinctly 
spoke  of  Lucy  Barbury  as  '  gone  ? '  "  "I  iieard  her  name ; 
and  I  heard  you  sj>(>ak  of  some  one  as  '  gone.' "  "  Can 
you  swear  that  I  said  that  she  was  gone  in  any  way  ex- 
cept as  having  disap])eared  ?  Think  well  of  it."  "  No, 
sir."  "  Well  :  did  you  hear  me  speak  of  any  one  else,  in 
that  conversation?"  "I  think  I  did:  you  both  s})()ke 
about  somebody  that  had  be(>n  confessing  to  Father  De- 
bree."  "  Man  or  woman  ?  "  "  AVoman."  "  Did  you 
understand  that  to  be  Miss  Barbury  ?  "  "No,  sir  ;  I  un- 
derstood it  was  Mrs.  Barre."  "  And  can  you  swear  that 
that  was  not  the  person  I  said  was  gone  ?  "  "  No,  sir,  I 
cannot."     "  That  will  do,  sir." 

Sister  Theresa  was  next  called  to  the  stand  ;  but  before 
her  examination  had  begun,  a  disturbance  outside  and  at 
the  door  of  the  Court-room  dn^w  all  attention  to  th'-.t  side. 
The  name  of  "  Lane  "  was  heard  ;  the  Attorney-General 
became  agitated,  but  looked  suddenly  hopeful.  The  ofR- 
cers  of  the  Court  had  gathered  immediately  toward  the 
door.  Father  Nicholas  east  a  (piick  glance  that  way  ;  and 
Mr.  Wellon  looked,  very  engerly. 

"  There's  no  Ladford  there,"  said  the  latter,  forgetting 
himself,  and  thinking  aloud.  Then,  presently  recalled  by 
the  many  faces  turned  to  him,  lu;  Iwwed  to  the  Court  by 
way  of  a])ology.  Tiie  Attorn(»y-General,  who  had  looked 
to  him,  like  the  rest,  still  waited,  without  questioning  the 
nun  who  had  been  called  on,  and  requested  her  to  be  seated. 


■m 


THE  TRIAL. 


481 


and  in 
n  ;  but 
;y  very 

»out  (he 
Fathor 
stiiK'tly 
r  name ; 
"  Can 
kvay  ex- 
"  No, 
else,  in 
h  spoke 
tier  De- 
)id    you 
• ;  I  un- 
ear  that 
[o,  sir,  I 

it  before 

i  and  at 

.t  side. 

General 

he  offi- 

ard  the 

ly  ;  and 

r«];ctting 
ailed  by 
ourt  by 

looked 
ling  the 

seated. 


"  We  hope,"  said  he  to  the  Court,  "  to  be  able  to  put 
our  witness  on  the  stand  in  a  few  moments,  if  the  Court 
will  be  pleased  to  iiululge  us  ;  1  see  the  messenger  who 
was  sent  tor  him." 

The  ollieers  quieted  all  but  the  indefinite  motion  and 
Bound  that  show  tlu;  excited  state  of  a  crowd,  and  made 
way  ibr  one  of  scneral  men  who  had  got  within  the 
door.  The  counsel  for  the  Crown  were,  for  a  while,  in 
close  conversation  with  him;  a  new  sensation  pas8(!d  over 
the  crowd;  and  then  the  Covernment  said  that  "infor- 
mation had  been  just  received  which  satisfied  them  that 
Warrener  Lane,  the  witness  for  whom  they  had  been 
locking,  had  |)erishe(l,  while  engagcid  in  an  honorable 
mission  of  charity,  respected  by  his  comrades,  and  in  the 
faith  and  jxMiitence  of  a  Cinistian  man.  It  was,  there- 
fore, out  of  their  power  to  put  his  testimony  into  the  case, 
and  they  must  do  without  it." 

A  new  sensation  passed  over  the  crowd  ;  and  something 
like  a  shout  wiis  heard  on  the  outside  of  the  building. 
Father  Crampton  almost  smih^l,  and  lifted  up  his  eyes, 
apparently  in  a  momentary  thanksgiving. 

The  Government  did  not  throw  up  the  case.  The 
Attorney-General  simply  and  gravely  expressed  his  re- 
gret at  the  loss  of  so  important  evi(lenc<',  and  at  the  death 
of  the  man,  though  it  was  in  an  honorable  cause.  The 
other  witnesses  were  called,  after  Sister  Theresa  ;  and  the 
evidence  of  flu;  officers  who  had  searched  for  the  missing 
nuns  and  boatmen,  showed  that  not  one  of  these  could  be 
traced.  Father  Crampton  asked  no  questions  ;  leaving 
it,  as  he  said,  to  the  Court  to  show  the  jury  that  this 
testimony  did  not,  in  any  way,  touch  him. 

All  evidence  touching  the  priest's  character,  save  in 

31 


'"I 


482 


THE  NKVV   rUIEST. 


RliliJI 


ii 


U^  >' 


«> 


te'iii 


J  .1 


m: 


(he  one  point  of  his  being  Hkely  to  have  committed  thia 
crime,  was  ruled  out. 

The  Chief  Justice  summed  up  and  commented  upon  the 
testimony  wisely  and  fairly  ;  when  lui  had  done,  Father 
Crampton  bowed  dignifiedly  to  the  court. 

When  the  case  was  given  to  the  jury,  a  leading  bar- 
rister leaned  over  and  whis|)ered  to  the  solicitor-general, 
"They  won't  leave  their  seats." 

The  jury  withdrew,  however,  and  were  out  about 
twenty  miniites,  when  they  came  in  with  a  verdict  of 
*'  Not  guilty." 

The  j)riest  rose,  and  bowing  gravely,  as  before,  with- 
drew. Mrs.  Calloran  shook  her  petticoats,  and  turning 
indignantly  to  the  15ench,  said  : — 

"  Sure,  didn't  1  know  that  before,  without  three  jidges 
an'  twelve  juries  to  tell  it  me  ?  An'  who'll  get  satisfaction 
for  me  lying  in  prison  ?  " 

An  otficer  laid  hold  of  her,  and  hurried  her  away,  to 
the  freedom  of  the  open  air,  lest  she  should  be  committed 
for  contempt. 

Froi.i  the  street  came  a  sound  significant  of  popular 
excitement. 

It  was  impossible  for  Father  Nicholas,  if  he  had 
wished  it,  to  get  rid  of  all  the  different  demonstrations 
in  which  the  excited  spirit  of  his  fellow-religionists  broke 
forth  af\er  his  discharge  from  custody.  He  had  no  car- 
riage to  be  dragged  ;  nor  what  would  have  become  the 
habits  of  the  country  better,  boat  to  be  towed  ;  but  as  he 
walked  along  the  street,  the  men  walked  in  ranks  of  four 
or  five  abreast,  before  and  behind,  and  in  the  roadway  at 
his  side  ;  and  women,  less  orderly,  were  mingled  among 
them.  Green  badges  of  fir,  and  spruce  twigs,  and  here 
mnd  there  of  shamrock,  indicative  of  birth  in  the  Emerald 


1 ;  ■ 


,cd  this 

>on  tho 
Father 

ig  bar- 
jeneral, 

;    about 
diet  of 

e,  with- 
turning 

e  jidges 
isfaction 

iway,  to 
mmitted 

popular 

he  had 
;tration3 
s  broke 
no  car- 
)nie  the 
ut  as  he 
of  four 
way  at 
among 
nd  here 
iLnierald 


THE   TRIAL. 


48n 


Isle,  soon  made  their  appearance,  marshals  of  the  i)roees- 
sion  decorated  and  distinguished  by  suspc^nders  outside  of 
thciir  clothes,  presently  were  conspicuous  ;  and  so,  with 
heavy,  martial  tramp,  and  fii^rce  looks,  (a  few  of  llieni  giv- 
ing groans  before  one  or  two  houses  of  obnoxious  persons,) 
the  crowd  escorted  Father  Nicholas  Cram{)ton  up  to  the 
Mission  })remises,  while  the  marshals  got  into  everybody's 
way,  and  made  themselves  very  hot,  ordering  and  gestic- 
ulating. 

One  woman  was  very  active  and  prominent  in  the 
demonstration  about  the  priest.  Upon  her  they  presently 
laid  hands,  and  placed  her  in  the  midst,  and  escorted  her 
also.  This  was  INIrs.  Calloran,  who  had  at  first  been  for- 
gotten. When  she  had  thus  found  her  pro[)er  [)lace,  she 
trudged  on,  less  noisy  though  not  less  earnest  than  before. 

No  let  or  hinderance  was  offered  to  this  crowd  ;  the  sol- 
diers were  kept  out  of  sight ;  the  special  constables  were 
not  put  forward,  and  the  rest  of  the  people  did  not  come 
in  the  way.  At  the  gate  F^vther  Nicholas  dismissed  them 
with  a  few  words. 

"  They  had  had  provocation,"  he  said,  "  that  would  have 
driven  a  less  patient  and  orderly  people  to  violence.  They 
had,  also,  the  power  to  sweep  the  arrogant  contemners  of 
their  most  holy  religion  into  nothing.  He  was  a  minister 
of  peace,  and  though  he  knew  that  in  the  sight  of  men 
they  would  be  excused,  and,  in  the  sight  of  God,  they 
would  be  justified,  if  they  were  to  show  a  sense  of  their 
wrongs,  yet  he  must  counsel  them  to  wait  patiently  for 
the  day  in  which  they  would  at  length  have  full  justice." 

Then  the  marshals  and  others,  with  much  brandishing 
of  their  arms,  got  the  multitude  to  their  knees,  much  as  if 
they  had  mowed  them  down  ;  and  while  some  wiped  their 
faces,  and  some  brushed  their  clothes,  and  some  continued 


48  i 


TIIK  NKW  rruKST. 


*^  '.  i 


cortnin  alN'rcvtions  with  fh(>ir  niMfjlibors,  as  (ho  way  of 
crowds  is.  Father  Crniuptoii  bicssc'd  thrin. 

Thry  h.'ul  hrirnn  slowly  to  hrcak  up  into  stn.ill  coinna- 
nies,  not  kiiowinsx  oxacllv  whjit  to  «lo  with  thiMnsclvcs, 
when  Fnthcr  TcnMin^  caiur,  inakin;i;  his  way  homo, 
throuixlj  th(»  nii«lsf  of  (hem.  Very  many  of  tho  hit(* 
enthusiasts,  oti  bcooining  uwaro  of  his  presonco,  looked 
rather  sheepish. 

He  addressed  himself  to  diffen'tit  little  }^athenn«!;s,  aa 
he  pass(Hl  by,  exhortin_sj;  them  to  "  ^o  home,  now,  and 
show  tlu*  way  Irishmen  could  be  (juiet."  There  wero 
some  who  obj(»cted  that  "  it  was  not  just  the  thing  to  be 
quite,  till  theyM  jjot  th(»  life  tramped  out  o'  them;"  but 
Father  TereiuM>,  by  askiuij;  who  wa,s  trampinp;  the  life  out 
of  them,  and  biddinj:!;  them  not  to  "be  talkinj;  nonsense, 
that  way,"  convinced  by  far  the  p^reater  number,  and  sent 
them  to  their  homes.  The  remainder  soon  disappeared, 
and  the  town  wiis  quiet. 


y-- 


M 


iftiii 


THE  LAST  OF  LADFORD. 


Asrt 


CIIAl'TKR   LII. 


TlIK    LAST    OF    LADFOUD. 


j^IIILTO  tho  counsel  lin^crod  talkinpf  in  the  court 


room,  al'tiM*  tlio  witlulrjivval  of  tlio  jnd^ciH,  At- 
tonioy-dcncral  Kay,  leaving  his  [lapcfPH  ami 
other  matters  in  the  hands  of  his  ch'riv,  proposiMl  to 
ISlr.  WcHon  a  walk  ;  an  invitation  which  the  ch-rgynian 
readily   a('<'e|)t('d. 

In  passinfjj  out,  tlie  lawyer  heekoned  to  Lan(;'s  ship- 
mate, who  ha<l  eouK;  from  Si.  John's  with  the  messenger; 
and,  as  they  went,  they  listened  to  the  story  of  the  last  of 
liadford ;  whieh,  in  sncdi  shai)e  as  that  it  shall  be  best 
understood,  (though  not  in  tlu;  man's  words,)  we  give  the 
reader. 

Where  Trinity  and  Flacentia  Bays  cut  nearly  through 
the  Island,  the  distance  across  the  tongue  of  land,  in  the 
narrowest  part,  is  only  three  or  four  miles,  wdiile  the 
nearest  way  by  water  is  souk;  three  himdred ;  yet,  so  hard 
is  the  crossing,  and  so  much  more  used  are  our  Newfound- 
landers to  going  afloat  than  afoot,  that  all  traffic  and  travel 
in  that  day,  took  the  sea-passag(% — perhaps,  still  do  so. 

There  is  a  town,  Placentia,  once — in  its  French  days 
— far  more  important  than  now ;  and,  even  in  the  time  of 
our  story,  having  a  good  deal  of  stir  of  business.  Several 
Bchooners  lay  in  the  harbor,  and  one — the  Ice-Blink — was 


48r, 


THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


\f 


hi-  'J.    ! 


being  pretty  briskly  fitted  out  for  sea ;  a  dozen  men  or  so 
being  engaged  in  caulking,  and  painting,  taughtening 
rigging,  and  sera[)ing  down  and  slushing  masts.  The 
Aghsanti'j  rfe'Stiuulion  "was  to  St.  John's,  but  she  was 
temporarily  to  go  up  the  coast  toward  Cape  Ray,  to  relieve 
the  people  of  a  Quebec  emigrant- ship,  wrecked  some- 
where near  La  Poile. 

During  this  time,  a  man  made  his  appearance  in  Pla- 
centia,  giving  his  name  as  Lane,  and  supposed  by  the 
people  there  to  be  a  deserter  from  the  man-of-war  on  the 
station,  —  the  Surinam.  His  ways  were  strange;  he 
"  studied,"  as  they  said,  a  good  deal ;  read  his  little  Bible 
and  Prayer-book  much ;  was  quiet,  and  had  such  "  old- 
fashioned  ways  "  as  to  raise  a  laugh  now  and  then  at  first ; 
but,  at  length,  was  found  to  know  so  much,  and  to  be  so 
handy,  thct,  in  three  days'  tim'^,  he  was  not  only  a  valued 
hand  at  the  schooner,  but  was  ir  that  sort  of  esteem  that 
he  was  put  at  the  sculling-oar  waen  he  went  with  others 
up  the  Bay,  or  outside.     This  was  our  man,  Ladford. 

On  the  vhole,  though  some  thought  "  'e  wasn*  gezac'ly 
right,  mubbe,"  yet  a  general  deference  towards  him  began 
to  establish  itself.  If  he  was  "  somew'y  strange,"  in  the 
eyes  of  the  crew  with  whom  he  was  just  brought  together, 
yet  they  saw,  at  ance,  that  he  was  a  "  proper  knowledge- 
able man,"  and  they  accordingly  thought  his  strangeness 
to  arise  from  the  possession  of  special  spiritual  gifts,  con- 
nected with  his  abstraction  and  study  of  the  Word  of  God. 
It  was  asserted,  indeed,  that  a  very  ugly  look  had  been 
seen  in  his  face  ;  but,  as  his  uniform  expression  was  very 
sad,  and  his  manner  was  uniformly  gentle,  this  assertion 
was  swallowed  up  and  lost  sight  of,  in  the  general  impres- 
sion of  his  character ;  one  which  was  diffused  everywhere 
by  those  public  carriers,  the  children,  and  prevailed  to 


en  or  so 
jhtening 
.  I'he 
>ho  wjis 
)  relieve 
i  some- 

in  Pla- 

I  by  the 

r  on  the 

ige ;   he 

,le  Bible 

ch  "  old- 

at  first ; 

to  be  so 

a  valued 

iem  that 

li  others 

lord. 

gezac'ly 

n  began 

in  the 

ogether, 

(wledge- 

mgeness 

\s,  con- 

of  God. 

id  been 

'^as  very 

ssertion 

impres- 

ywhere 

ailed  to 


THE  LAST   OF   LADFORD. 


487 


Bome  extent,  also,  among  the  Roman  Catholics,  who  are 
the  great  part  of  the  population  of  Placentia. 

The  wind  does  not  always  blow  from  the  same  quarter, 
and  it  changed,  after  a  couple  of  days,  for  the  waiters  in 
Great  Placentia  Harbor,  and  came  in  from  something 
south  of  east.  The  moment  that  it  was  settled  that  the 
breeze  would  hold,  the  "  Ice-Blink  "  got  herself  ready  to 
start,  with  sails  filling  and  flapj)ing,  and  streamer,  and 
pennon,  and  house-flag,  and  union-jack,  all  flaunting  gayly 
in  the  wind.  Shortly  before  casting  off  from  the  stage, 
another  circumstance  gave  occasion  to  reii^ark,  and  added 
to  the  mystery  of  Ladford's  character.  He  had  somehow 
set  his  mind  on  taking  along  with  them,  in  the  schooner, 
a  very  large  punt  that  he  had  used  a  good  deal  in  the 
Bay  ;  and,  at  this  last  moment,  he  seemed  so  earnest  for 
it,  that  it  was  determined  to  take  the  boat,  although,  as 
had  been  objected  to  him,  it  lumbered  up  the  deck  greatly. 
So  it  was  got  on  board  to  his  satisfaction. 

A  musket  was  fired  from  the  schooner,  and  the  "  Ice- 
Blink  "  gallantly  lei't  the  stage.  It  was  a  pleasant  after- 
noon, and  all  things  seemed  to  conspire  to  help  them  for- 
ward,— weather,  and  wind,  and  tide, — and  these  Placentia 
men  know  the  way,  and  the  headlands,  and  islands,  and 
harbors  along  the  way,  as  a  Londoner  knows  the  Strand, 
and  Temple-Bar,  and  St.  Paul's  Cathedral ;  or  an  Edin- 
burgh man.  Prince's  Street,  and  the  North  Loch,  and  the 
Castle.  It  is  a  dangerous  coast  to  strangers.  The  rocks 
near  Cape  Race  have  caught  many  a  ship,  and  St.  Shott's 
has  had  its  share  of  the  fearful  spoil,  and  more  than  one 
other  place  between  that  and  Cape  Ray.  The  very 
natives  and  familiars  of  this  chore  may  be  carried  out  of 
their  reckoning  by  unexpected  currents,  which,  sometimes, 
seeming  to  be  set  going  by  the  winds,  defy  calculation  of 


':  ■ 


m 


m 


\m 


WW,   NKW    I'UIKST. 


llicir  (lirrclion  or  forcr  ;  lni(  (lini,  if  lln' wrallHC  should 
Ihm'oiiu'  stoi'iny.  (Iht*'  i^  l''oilim<'  \\\\y,  'y\^\  oi»  (lie  ollin* 
pi(I(>  ol'  ('m|h'  CliMpr.-ni  Koiifn',  with  som<'  ;i -od  HlicllriH  in 
it,  ntul.  on  the  otlirr  linixi,  Si.  I'drr's  in  IMi(|iirlon,  to 
inako  tor. 

'rin»  wind  I'mIIm  li;;lil  nnd  tin'  wrnllicr  conlinnrs  v\v[\v 
and  WMiin.  .•«<  Ilicy  p)  down  lln'  Wwy  nnd  over  lownrd  tlio 
(\»|>o  ;  and  tlio  lonji:;  rvniin^.  initil  laic  into  llio  ni^lil,  is 
8|>('n(,  as  sailinj:  nn>n  an'  woni  lo  s)n'nd  a  ^ood  d<<al  of 
tlicir  finn\  and  iIm<s«'  men  rsjxM'ially,  lookin^jj  loi-  a.  short 
trip  only,  wrrc  l<Mnpl<Mi  lo  spond  nnicli  ol'  ihoirs,  in  lalkinji^. 
AVhat  Jiadl'ord  di«l  and  said,  we  brji;  the  reader  to  ob- 
Hcrvc. 

The  walch  hclow  staid  on  deck  ;  and  exeepl  the  man 
nl  the  helm  and  a  look-ont  forward,  all  hands  were  gath- 
ered lo}2;ellM'r.  anndships.  IxMween  the  ^real  pmil  and  the, 
weather  hidwarks.  They  had  had  several  sonj^s — som*^ 
of  them  of  the  sinp'rs'  own  makinj; — and  these  last  had 
a  inelaneholy  l»nr<len  o\'  shipwreck  or  loss  of  shipmales, 
.Mnd  then  tlu'  conversation  t«tok  a  }::loomy  character ;  and 
at  lenixth  IuimumI  to  the  stipernatnral,  as  is  so  connnon 
with  »>nr  tishermeji  and  with  other  snpj'rslilions  people. 

From  dwellini:;  foi*  a  irood  while  toj^ether  on  the  myste- 
rious noises  and  hai>penin<rs  in  a  certaiti  cove  in  llerndt- 
np'  l^ay.  whi<'h  was  snppose<l  to  he  haunted,  jind  about 
which  Tnost  i^f  iIkmu  had  stranjre  stories  to  tell,  (often  ox- 
ojlircrations  or  wonderful  alterations  of  som«'  one.  common 
stock.)  they  passed  to  sjx'akiui;  of  the  sii^ht  of  moun- 
tains under  water,  which  olY  some  parts  of  the  island  are 
peon,  t'ath<^m  after  fathom,  hinidreds  of  fathoms  down  b«?- 
low  the  surface.  To  t)no  imaccustomed  to  the  sifjbt  of 
these  in  the  clear  water,  thev  have  m  most  startlin<j  and 
dreadt'ul  look.     Though  the   highest  point  be,  perhaps, 


^M''. 


Tlir,   LAST   OK   LADKOKI). 


m) 


i'  should 
|Ih>  oIIkt 
lirllriH  ill 
iirlon,  to 

iHN  clnir 
AvnnI  (lio 
ni<;lit,  Ih 
(Icnl  of 
»r  M.  short 
II  (!ilkin<;. 
VI'  to  ob- 

(h(<  inan 
ci'c  •jiilh- 

iiii«l  tlin 

j;s — solium 

»  last  hiul 

ii|nn!il<'s, 

'Irr  ;  iiud 

coiiinioii 

)('0|)I('. 

ic  inyslo- 

llcrinit- 

Jid  iihont 

oIUmi  ox- 

oommoii 

of  moun- 

sl.'iiid  sue 

down  b«3- 

sight  of 

liii^  jind 

[)erliaps, 


four  fnthoin^  (h'rp,  yrt  th<>  eye  that  can  follow  down  thn 
ni;r^rd  sidc-i  of  ihrsc  vast  inuiiiitaiiH,  into  tlirir  far  lift-t 
and  «'h'lls,  is  strclrjird  wn..-  willi  tenor,  as,  with  the  lon^ 
sw<'ll  of  llir  Kca,  IIk'  pcrfn'tly  tranH|iai-(>nt  (drniciit  Win 
yon  slowly  settle  towards  these  awl'nl  depths. 

Ladlord  sate  still  ;  awake  or  asleeji  he  t(toU  no  part  in 
the  eoiiversatioii,  hiit  at  lenn;(h,  while  they  still  spoke  of 
these  learl'iil  sunken  or  ne\er-lrodden  peaks,  the  silent 
Mtraiif^er  first  broke  silence.  In  coninioii  lan;^iia;j;e,  thoii;^li 
iibove  that  of  his  eonipanions,  and  sittin;j;  as  iinnioved  nn 
he  had  before  been  sillin;r,  he  touched  n|>on  the  different 
Hiibjecls  of  their  l<)riiier  talk,  and  told  them  of  thin^,-4 
>vhich  he  had  done  and  seen,  or  which  had  happened  at  \i\n 
very  side  ;  but,  he  said,  there  was  one  thin;^  that  a  man 
found  out,  if  he  only  went  in  the  wuy  of  it,  and  thiit  wus, 
(hat  one  lu'cdn't  be  under  fear  of  any  thin;jj  if  he  only  had 
aouH'ihiiKf  to  lii)l<l  (HI  to  ;  and  as  the  man  went  on,  in  his 
(piiet  way,  sometimes  reasoniii<;,  somelimes  describinj^  his 
experience,  somelimes  expressin;^  stron;jj  conviction,  the 
silence  was  kept  about  his  sin;r|(.  voiiH",  not  even  brukeii 
by  words  of  assent. 

The  voice  seemed  to  come  down  from  some  hei«^hts  of 
Hpiritnal  wisdom,  clear  and  fresh,  and  when  he  spoke  of 
lildden  tliin'»;s  and  mysteries,  nih  took  tluiir  inountuiii- 
depths  buried  in  clear  water  for  his  illustiJition,  usiii*;, 
sometimes,  tin;  lan^uaj:;e  of  Holy  Scri|>tnre,  he  fairly 
op<'ned  to  his  hearers  a  new  world,  and  there  were  few, 
if  any,  of  (hose  about  him  that  did  not  listen  attentively  ; 
thou<]i;h,  of  course,  some  heard  him  in  such  a  way  as  to  be 
ready  to  make  a  little  fun  out  of  his  wisdom,  by-and-by. 

As  his  voice  ceased,  it  wjus  as  if  an  attraction  had 
ceased  to  be  exerted  ;  the  crew  shifted  their  postures  and 
filled  their  pipes  ;  and  when  they  found  the  silence  to  last, 


490 


THE   Ni:W   TRIKST. 


I  ' 


i  ■'*:■    J 


l-A: 


got  up  and  looked  about  tl»(;in.  In  a  nionuMit  t)  o  speak- 
er's place,  was  oinpty ;  and  one  of  his  shi|)inat<'s,  going 
below,  hi'ard  a  slow,  regular  bieathiiig  of  a  sleeper  ;  and 
presentlj ,  drawing  gently  near,  and  feeling,  found  that  it 
was  Ladford  sleeping.  It  was  not  long  betbre  a  strango 
voice  made  its  way  into  tlu;  darkness  in  which  the  sleep- 
ing and  the  waking  man  were,  (for  the  latter  had  thrown 
himself  down  to  rest,)  u  voice  like  none  the  fisherman 
knew,  and  he  started  up  and  tied,  in  great  alarm,  to  the 
deck  once  more.  Coming,  as  it  did,  directly  after  their 
discussion,  there  is  little  cause  to  wonder  at  his  being  put 
in  terror  by  it.  Several  of  the  men,  however,  immedi- 
ately went  down,  and  the  skipper,  taking  a  light  with 
them ;  and  having  ascertained  that  no  one  was  there,  in 
the  body,  cxcl'pt  the  single  man  asl(>ep,  awaited,  eagerly, 
a  repetition  of  the  wonder  ;  the  light  being,  first,  carefully 
shaded. 

Presently  a  strange  sound  came  again — not  like  the 
voice  of  man  or  woman — and  it  spoke  English  words. 
Then,  using  their  lamp  once  more,  they  found  that  though 
Ladford's  eyes  were  fast  in  slamber,  yet  his  lips  were 
moving  and  the  words  were  his.  They  were  uncommonly 
soft,  and  with  a  peculiar  distinctness  of  their  own,  much 
as  if  some  finer  organ  than  that  with  which  he  framed  his 
waking  speech,  gave  utterance  to  them,  or  as  if  some  finer 
being,  having  found  this  body  sleeping,  had  taken  pos- 
session of  it  for  a  while.  Broken  sentences,  not  under- 
stood, came  first  from  him,  while  they  were  listening,  and 
by-and-by  he  said  : — 

"  Take  those  letters  and  make  his  name.  The  letters 
are  there  ; "  and  he  said  it  so  distinctly  that  the  men  be- 
gan to  search  for  them,  about  the  place,  but  in  vain. 

"'E's  dreamun,"  said  they,  "mubbe  it's  about  some 
child  'e've  ahad  and  loss'd  un." 


;^e  speak- 
itt's,  going 
L'per  ;  and 
ind  that  it 
a  .stningu 
the  sleep- 
ad  thrown 
fisherman 
rm,  to  tlie 
ifter  their 
being  put 
r,  immedi- 
light  with 
s  there,  in 
d,  eagerly, 
:,  carefully 

>t  like  the 
sh  words, 
lat  though 

lips  were 
commonly 
►wn,  much 
ramed  his 
some  finer 
aken  pos- 
ot  under- 

ning,  and 

he  letters 
e  men  be- 
vain. 
lOut  some 


THK  LAST   OF   LADFORD. 


401 


So  they  stood  still  and  listened  for  more :  "  I  s'pose  it'« 
no  harm,  we  listenin'  ?  "  said  one  of  them.  The  sleeper 
soon  spoke  again  : — 

'*  Tut  them  all  round. L— 0— U— D." 

The  men  looked  at  eacii  other  wondei'ing,  and  leaned 
forward,  easting  glances  at  the  sides  of  tiie  rude  place  and 
the  walls,  and  giving  a  gleam  from  the  ligiit,  which  showed 
nothing  but  bunk  or  bulkhead  there,  with  little  articles  of 
apparel  here  and  there  hanging. 

"  It's  the  cap'n  o'  the  man-o'-war,  mubbe,"  suggested 
on(!  of  the  men,  recurring  to  the  g«'neral  conjecture  about 
their  shipmate's  history. 

"  J's  first,  you  know,"  went  on  the  sleeping  man ; 
"  E— S— U— S." 

"  That's  i)retty,  now  ;  isn't  it  ? "  said  one  of  the  wit- 
nesses of  the  scene,  when,  after  a  moment,  they  had  all 
come  to  the  knowledge  of  his  meaning;  and  every  man 
of  them  uncovered  his  head. 

"  Do  *ee  think  'e  is  all  alone  ?  "  was  suggested. 

The  lantern  was  cautiously  held  to  his  face,  and,  as 
they  bent  over  and  gazed  upon  him,  they  could  not  but 
see  the  lovely  look  that  lay  in  his  featiu-es ;  but  there  was 
none  with  him  that  they  could  see.  His  clothes  were 
what  the  reader  may  remember  as  his  better  dress,  and 
they  were  coarse  enough  ;  yet,  where  his  sou'wester  had 
fallen  aside,  it  looked  almost  as  if  scales  were  cleaving  off 
from  about  the  brightness  of  the  face.  They  lingered  a 
little,  and  then  left  him  there,  at  rest. 

The  morrow  came  calmly  over  sea  and  land,  with  the 
wind  blowing  gently  from  the  same  quarter  as  on  the  day 
before.  By  the  time  that  they  could  well  make  out  the  land, 
they  found  themselves  abreast  of  Cape  Chapeau  Rouge, 
and  seven  or  eight  miles  to  windward  of  it.     No  one 


492 


THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


y^i^^  ill  l;S;. 


I         :'\l 


roused  llie  Old  Sailor,  (as  they  generally  called  Ladford,) 
when  his  watch  was  called ;  he  had  worked  hard  the  day 
before,  and,  moreover,  the  deference  already  yielded  to 
him  was  increased  by  the  story  of  the  night  scene,  which 
was  now  generally  known  on  board. 

He  came  np,  looking  pale  and  thoughtful,  but  taking 
no  notice  of  the  curious  glances  that  his  comrades  cast  at 
him.  The  wind  freshened  a  little,  veering  rather  more 
to  the  southward  as  they  had  expected.  Ladford,  who 
had  kept  himself  apart,  was  standing  on  the  leeward  side 
of  the  deck,  looking  over  the  water,  abstractedly,  when, 
suddenly,  his  eyes  were  drawn  toward  the  bow,  and  fixed 
in  that  direction.  lie  shaded  them  with  his  hand,  and 
then  his  lips  moved  without  sound.  Presently  he  looked 
at  the  large  boat  which  he  had  induced  them  to  bring, 
and  then  back  again  toward  the  bow. 

"What  punt  is  that?  "  he  asked,  in  a  low,  even  voice, 
keeping  his  eyes  still  fixed. 

There  were  plenty  to  hear  him, — for  he  was  constantly 
observed, — and  some  one  answered,  catching,  unwittingly, 
the  same  tone, — 

"  There's  ne'er  a  punt  where  you're  looking,  at  all." 

"  What  punt  is  that  ?  "  repeated  he ;  "  there !  by  the 
bow  ! " 

The  answer  to  this  repeated  question  was  to  the  same 
effect ;  but  given  in  a  faint  ^  oice,  and  rather  aside  to  the 
rest  than  addressed  to  the  asker. 

"  Do  ye  see  ?  "  asked  the  latter  again,  where  they  saAv 

nothing.     "  Do  ye  see  her  ? See  who  go  there  !  "  (he 

now  raised  his  right  hand,  slowly,  and  pointed.)  "  Who 
are  they  going  over  the  bow  ? "  His  eye  kept  steadily 
fixed,  unwinking  and  unwavering,  rather  wider  than  is 
natural,  and  he  next  drew  up  to  the  bulwark,  and  looked 
over,  and  began,  gravelj-,  to  count. 


THE  LAST   OF  LADFORD.                        493 

I  Lad  ford,) 

"  One,  two,  three,  four,"  he  told,  up  to  "  fourteen ; " 

ird  the  day 

then  an  anxious  exj)ression   came    upon  his   face,  and, 

yielded  to 

almost  immediately,  he  repeated  his  count,  in  the  same 

;ene,  which 

way,  and  to  the  same  end;  and  then  put  his  hand  to  his 
brow,  and  passed  it  over  his  face  as  he  withdrew  it.     lie 

hut  taking 

then  gave  one  slow,  fixed  look  towards  the  spot  in  which 

ides  cast  at 

he  had  seen  the  punt  and  the  men,  and  then  turned  slowly 

ither  more 

away,  and  took  his  place  with    some    sail-makers,  who 

idlbrd,  who 

made  room  for  him  very  readily. 

!eward  side 

The  men  who  had  witnessed  this  singular  scene  did  not 

?dly,  when, 

meddle  with  him,  nor  even  talk  about  it  aloud  ;  they  spoke 

',  and  fixed 

of  it,  in  a  low  voice,  by  themselves,  and  some  of  tliem 

hand,  and 

went  forward  to  see  if  there  was  any  thing  thereabouts 

f  he  looked 

that  he  could  have  mistaken  for  what  he  thought  himself 

n  to  bring. 

to  have  seen.     Others  were  satisfied,  without  going  for- 
ward, that  the  old  seaman  had  had  a  "  visage  ;  "  and  they 

even  voice. 

speculated  upon  it,  from  time  to  time,  during  the  day,  as 
portending  something. 

constantly 

"  'E've  got  the  number  of  all  hands,  only  one  short," 

in  wittingly. 

said  some  one.     "  There's  fifteen  of  we,  all  told." 

In  Ladford's  immediate  neighborhood,  there  was  little 

at  all." 

talking ;  yet  any  question,  (generally  repeated  once  or 

re!  by  the 

oftener,)  he  answered  in  a  few  pleasant  words,  perfectly 
rightly.     He  took  a  double  turn  at  the  helm,  where  old 

0  the  same 

habit  made  him  do   the  utmost  justice  to  the  schooner's 

■* 

iside  to  the 

sailing. 

Day  wore  away,  and  night  came  on.      This  second 

e  they  saw 

night  they  were  less  talkative  than  on  the  former,  and  a 

here ! "  (he 

light  breeze  bore  them  on  ;  there  was  no  working  of  the. 

.)     "  Who 

vessel,  and  the  men  were  mostly  gathered  about  the  cap- 

;pt steadily 

stan.     Ladford  was  below,  and  had  turned  in ;  there  was 

er  than  is 

nothing  noticeable  about  him  this  night,  and  all  was  quiet, 

and  looked 

except  for  snatches  of  talk  among  the  men  on  deck. 

i 


4D4 


THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


JlCnl, 


mi 

i 


1:1 


I.:. 


**'Twas  in  British  Channel  we  were  run  down  that 
time,"  said  one  of  these.  "Took  us  just  about  amid- 
ships ;  but,  for  all  that,  she  was  a  long  time  goun  down ; 
had  time  to  get  aboard  o'  the  ship,  and  we  were  a  mile 
off  by  the  time.     She  was  a  tough  old  thing,  that  brig." 

"  I  should  have  thought  she'd  'a'  broke  you  all  to 
pieces,"  said  another. 

"  Why,  no !  it  wa'n't  a  very  hard  knock  she  gave  us, 
seeminly, — the  knock  was  n'.  In  course  she  put  her  long 
nose  in  over  us,  and  got  foul  with  our  standun  riggin'  a' 
both  sides ;  we  had  to  cut  away.  There !  twasn'  much 
harder  than  that,  now." 

"What?"  asked  several  voices. 

"Just  that  little  thump,  whatever  it  was,"  said  the  tel- 
ler of  the  story. 

Scarcely  any  one  had  noticed  the  little  shock  to  which 
he  called  their  attention  ;  and  so  the  general  opinion  was 
that  he  had  forgotten. 

While  they  were  expressing  this  opinion,  the  man  at 
the  helm  cried  out ;  and  all  at  the  same  instant,  and  by  a 
common  impulse,  started  up  and  cried : — 

"  She's  going  down  !  she's  sinking  !  God  have  mercy 
upon  us  !  We're  lost  men  !  "  and  the  other  cries  of  sud- 
den terror  and  dismay. 

The  skipper  was  as  sudden  and  stern  as  lightning,  but 
perfectly  self-possessed,  as  were  the  greater  part  of  these 
hardy  men,  who  had  seen  worse  things  than  this.  There 
was  not  a  minute.  There  was  a  rush,  as  of  a  mill-stream, 
and  an  unsteady  settling  of  the  ship  rather  over  to  port, 
(that  is  away  from  the  wind,)  and  down  by  the  head, — 
but  all  in  an  instant. 

"  The  big  punt !  "  was  the  cry  ;  and  over  the  deck  of 
that  foundering  schooner,  like  men  that  tread  the  crack 


THE  LAST  OF  LADFORD. 


495 


own  that 
)ut  araid- 
un  down ; 
re  a  mile 
It  brig." 
ou  all  to 

gave  us, 
t  her  long 

riggin'  a' 
asn'  much 


id  the  tel- 

z  to  which 
)inion  was 

le  man  at 
and  by  a 

ive  mercy 
es  of  sud- 

tning,  but 
t  of  these 
.  There 
ll-stream, 
r  to  port, 
e  head, — 

e  deck  of 
he  crack 


ling,  bending  floor  of  a  burning  house,  they  rush.  The 
large  punt  is  got  out,  over  the  bow, — over  the  lee-bow, — 
and  just  as  they  are,  without  stop  or  stay,  without  saving 
any  thing,  or  trying  to  save  any  thing,  every  man  goes 
over  into  her,  and  they  shove  off,  clear. 

"  Is  there  any  one  behind  ?  "  asks  the  skipper.  "  Don't 
give  way  yet ! — Hilloa,  there,  aboard  !  Who's  aboard, 
there  ?  "  thundered  the  skipper. 

"  Not  a  living  soul ! "  was  the  general  answer ;  and 
they  could  see  the  whole  deck  empty.  In  one  breath, 
almost,  all  life  had  passed  out  of  the  great  schooner  into 
the  beat. 

"  Hold  on  a  bit !  "  said  the  skipper,  standing  aft,  with 
the  sculling  oar  in  hand.  The  water  was  up  to  the  bends  ; 
presently  it  was  up  to  the  chains  ;  they  couldn't  tell  how 
high  it  was. 

"  Give  way,  boys  !  Give  way,  all  !  For  your  life, 
now  ! "  said  the  skipper. 

The  punt  shot  away,  leaving  the  schooner  rocking,  for 
the  last  time,  upon  the  surface  of  the  deep.  All  eyes 
were  fixed  in  silence  upon  her,  in  the  dimness  of  the  night, 
about  three  hundred  yards  off.  There  was  something 
solemn  or  awful  in  the  sight  of  the  deserted  vessel,  tall 
and  ghastly,  going  through  the  last,  alone.  It  was  like  a 
living  tragedy.  She  rocked  a  little  to  and  fro— but  very 
little.     The  men,  in  their  own  misfortune,  felt  sad  for  her. 

"  It's  cruel !  "  said  the  skipper.  "  It's  hard  to  see  her 
go  that  way  !  but  isn't  she  a  lady  !  " 

He  was  proud  of  her,  and  of  the  way  in  which  she  was 
going  to  her  end,  while  his  heart  was  full  of  her  loss  ;  but 
there  was  a  change,  soon  enough. 

"  What's  Aat  ?  "  "  Sure  enough  !  "  "  Count !  for 
God's  sake  !  "  shouted  differeiit  voices.     "  Three, — and 


■106 


THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


lift:'-: 


:  '-r 


.'h  ::i 


five  ; — and  two  are  seven, — ten, — thirteen, — fourteen  ! 
Good  God  !  there's  some  one  aboard  I  We're  one  short  I 
Let's  have  a  try  for  him  !  " 

But  at  the  instant,  with  a  sort  of  wail  from  under  her 
deck,  down  went  the  lee-Blink,  sails  and  all,  fathom  by 
fathom, — the  waters  coming  to.i:^ether  with  a  great  swash, 
— and  the  Deep  had  swallowed  her  up!     She  was  gone! 

— "  But  we're  all  here,"  said  one  of  the  saved  men, 
when  they  began  to  breathe  again.     "■  Who's  missun  ?  " 

No,  no.  There  were  but  fourteen  of  them.  "  And 
where's  the  Old  Sailor  ? "  asked  the  skipper.  Sure 
enough,  he  was  missing  ! 

"  And  this  is  'es  punt ;  and  was  n'  there  fourteen  went 
over  the  bow  ?  an'  was  n'  that  a  visage  ?  " 

"  Come,  come,  boys  !  Let's  pull  there  again,  and  we 
may  i)iok  up  so)uet/iu?i"  said  the  skipper.  He  did  not 
say  "  somebody,"  but  "  something." 

They  searched  all  about  the  place  ;  but  nothing  was  to 
be  ibund  ;  nor  could  they  even  make  out  what  had  sunk 
their  schooner.  If  it  had  been  spring,  the  ice  might  have 
done  it ;  as  it  was,  they  had  not  been  run  down, — they 
had  not  struck  a  rock. — It  might  have  been  a  floating 
wreck,  t)erhaps,  that  had  cut  through  her ;  but  they  could 
not  tell. 

And  the  Old  Sailor  was  gone  with  her !  If  it  was  for 
the  interest  of  Father  Nicholas  that  he  should  not  appear 
at  the  Court  in  Harbor  Grace, — if  it  was  for  the  interest 
of  justice  that  he  should, — it  is  settled  already.  Alone, 
in  that  great  schooner  for  his  colfm,  with  the  tall  masts 
over  him,  and  sail  set,  under  the  deep  water,  sleeps  the 
body  of  William  Ladt'ord,  or  Warrener  Lane,  once  smug- 
gler and  sinner,  to  await  the  General  Rising. 

His  shipwrecked  mates  pulled,  heavy-hearted,  for  the 


.1  ;  ;"/<. 


■■;',  r 


THE   LAST    OF   LADFORD. 


41)7 


urteen  1 
e  short  I 

idor  her 
horn  by 
it  swash, 
IS  gone ! 
ed  men, 
isun  ?  " 
,     "  And 
r.      Sure 

teen  went 

1,  and  we 
3  did  not 

ns  was  to 
had  sunk 
ight  have 
|vn., — they 
a  floating 
[hey  could 

lit  was  for 

lot  appear 

|e  interest 

Alone, 

tall  masts 

;leeps  the 

lice  sniug- 

}d,  for  the 


land.  One  man  (but  it  must  be  remembered  that  it  was 
night,)  said  that  he  could  see  the  Old  Sailor  witii  his  hand 
over  his  eyes,  as  in  the  morning  of  that  day  ;  and  it  was 
also  asserted  (and  it  may  be  so)  that  the  fatal  word 
"  Fourteen  "  came  over  the  water  to  the  punt. 

A  gale  lu?aded  the  boat  off;  and  after  narrowly  escap- 
ing swamping,  (it  was  the  great  punt,  under  God,  that 
saved  them,)  the  crew  got  on  board  a  lumber-ship,  out  of 
the  St.  Lawrence,  and  having  been  carried  hnlf-way 
across  the  ocean,  happening  to  meet  a  Newfoundland  ves- 
sel, were  transf(n'rcd  to  her. 

This  was  the  last  of  Lad  ford's  story.  It  was  soon 
spread  among  his  former  neighbors,  and  divided  the  inter- 
est of  the  trial.  It  is  a  common  fate  for  fishermen  to  be 
drowned  ;  but  the  man's  death  was  singular  and  strange, 
as  much  of  his  lil'e  had  been.  There  wen;  abundant  wit- 
nesses of  all  the  facts,  and  often  is  tlu;  tale  told  in  Pla- 
centia,  and  very  often  among  the  people;  of  Peterport. 

Shortly  after  the  I'arson's  return  from  his  walk  with 
the  Attorney-General,  Jesse  Hill  presc  nted  himself  in  the 
parlor  at  the  Bay-llarbor  parsonage,  and  drawing  down 
his  red  forelock,  by  way  of  salutation  to  Mr.  Wellon, 
said  : — 

"  Sarvunt,  sir  !  I  made  so  bold  " — (here  he  stole  a 
glance  toward  the  entry,  and  Isaac  came  to  his  support,) 
— "  Pareson,  ef  ee'd  be  so  well-j)lased,  sir,"  he  went  on, 
leaving  his  exordium,  and  rushing  to  his  subject,  "  we 
wants  to  git  Willum  Ladtbrd's  pardon,  sir."  Mr.  Wel- 
lon  looked  at  him  in  surprise. 

"  He's  pardoned  in  Paradise,  long  before  this,  I  hope, 
Jesse,"  said  he. 

"  I  know,  sir  ;  but  I  means  the  [lardon  from  the  Gov- 
ernor, sir ;  that's  the  paper.     You  know  we  can't  bury 

P2 


Pi 
I 


i 


408 


THE  NEW   PRIEST. 


i'i    r 


un,  Pareson  Wellon ;  and  *ee  know  people  says  there's 
stones  with  writings  on  'em  put  up  in  churches  in  Eng- 
hmd  ;  an'  so  a  good  many  of  us  tliought  we'd  ax  for  'e's 
pardon,  an'  put  un  in  a  frame  an'  hang  un  up  in  the 
scliool-house  for  a  sort  of  a  grave-stone,  hke." 

The  Parson's  surprise  had  changed  into  a  different  feel- 
ing, before  Jesse  had  done  sj)eaking ;  and  he  assured  him 
that  he  would  do  his  best  to  get  what  tliey  wanted,  and 
they  might  hang  it  up  in  the  church,  if  they  liked. 

We  may  anticipr.te  sufficiently  the  time  to  say  that  the 
Document,  engrossed  and  bearing  its  seal,  was  afterward 
secured  and  presented  to  Jesse  for  the  rest.  Jesse  Hill 
asked  the  Minister  to  be  "  so  well-plased  to  read  it,"  and 
having  secured  its  being  made  plain  that  the  Warrener 
Lane  in  the  writing  was  the  man  usually  known  as  "  Wil- 
liam Ladford,"  Jesse  insisted,  in  the  name  of  his  neigh- 
bors, on  paying  the  charges,  "  for  they  things  cost  money,'* 
and  having  been  satisfied  in  this  respect  also,  took  the 
paper  thankfully  away. 

It  is  now  a  tablet  to  the  memory  of  poor  Lane,  or  Lad- 
ford,  in  the  church  at  Peterport. 


C^nI 


m 


% 


STRANGE   HAPPENINGS. 


499 


there's 
n  Eng- 

for  'e's 
f  in  the 

ent  feel- 
ired  liim 
ited,  and 
i. 

that  the 
.fterward 
isse  Hill 
i  it,"  and 
^arrener 
as  "  Wil- 
lis neigh- 
L  money,' 

took  the 

i,  or  Lad- 


»> 


^ 


CHAPTER  LHI. 

STRANGE    HAPPENINGS    IN    THE    "  SPRING-BIRD." 

<T  was  on  Thursday  that  the  Court  adjourned,  leav- 
ing not  only  the  accused  acquitted  of  the  crime  with 
which  they  liad  been  charged,  but  the  fate  of  Sliip- 
per  George's  daughter  as  dark  as  ever.  The  verdict  was 
the  only  one  that  conld  have  been  brought  in  u[)on  the 
evidence  ;  and  the  Attorney-General  said  that  he  could 
not  wonder  at  the  result.  "  He  had  proof  enough,"  he 
said,  "  that  Crampton  had  been  a  villain  to  others  ;  but 
he  could  not  prove  that  he  had  made  way  with  Lucy 
Barbury,  whatever  he  might  think  about  it." 

The  Chief-Justice  left  Bay-Harbor  for  the  Capital,  in 
a  private  boat,  on  Thursday  afternoon.  Judge  Beam 
and  his  other  associate  waited  for  the  "  packet "  of  the 
next  day.  Mr.  Wellon,  having  passed  the  night  with  his 
brother  clergyman  at  Bay-Harbor,  went  homewards  next 
morning. 

Half-way  upon  the  road  the  Minister  encountered  the 
carrier,  who  hud  two  letters  for  him,  which  had  come 
from  the  other  end  of  the  Bay,  and  which  the  man  said 
he  had  brought  on  to  Bay- Harbor,  where  he  heard  that 
Mr.  Wellon  was,  because  he  thought  they  had  something 
to  do  with  Skipper  George's  daughter ;  for  he  had  sent 
in  one  from  the  River-head  to  her  father,  as  he  came 
alons;'. 


600 


THE  NEW  PRIEST, 


M 


I 


The  Parson  hastened  to  break  the  seal  of  one  of  them, 
and,  after  reading  a  little  way,  with  a  look  of  interest  and 
wonder,  as  he  sat  upon  his  horse,  turned  to  the  signature ; 
then  opened  the  other,  and  looking  first  to  the  name  of 
the  writer,  read  it  eagerly,  with  occasional  words  of  aston- 
ishment, riding,  at  the  same  time,  back  towards  Bay- 
Harbor,  with  the  letter-carrier  at  his  side. 

Tiie  substance  of  the  two  letters  (which  were  from 
Captain  Nolesworth  and  his  second  mate)  we  put  into  a 
narrative  form,  for  it  belongs  to  our  story,  and  is  an  ac- 
count of  certain  strange  things  which  happened  in  the 
brig  of  which  Captain  Nolesworth  and  Mr.  Keefe  were 
Master  and  second  officer. 

The  "  Spring-Bird  "  sailed,  it  will  be  remembered,  on  the 
night  of  the  nineteenth  of  August,  the  same  in  which,  as 
had  been  suspected,  Lucy  Barbury  was  murdered  in  Bay- 
llarbor. 

At  about  eleven  o'clock  that  night, — a  fine  wind  having 
sprung  up, — ofricers  and  men  were  all  on  board,  and  with 
the  merry  breeze  she  went  down  Conception  Bay,  along 
by  Bacaloue  Island,  and  so  out  toward  sea. 

Thereabouts  the  wind  falls  baffling,  and  soon  heads 
round  and  round,  until  it  comes  in  from  the  ocean.  She 
tacks  over  to  Cape  St.  Francis,  and  clears  Newfoundland. 
There  is  a  thick  fog  outside ;  but  between  it  and  the  land 
is  a  street  of  clear  water,  with  the  tall  cliffs  on  one  hand, 
and  that  unsubstantial  wall  upon  the  other ;  and  across 
this  open  water  she  lies,  until  she  buries  herself  so  com- 
pletely that  one  end  of  the  brig  can  scarcely  be  seen  from 
the  other.  So  she  works  her  way  by  long  st^  tches,  out 
into  the  great  w^aste  of  waters  across  which  she  is  bound. 
All  sail  is  set  that  will  draw  : — topsails,  topgallant-sails, 
and  royals,  fore  and  aft, — those  square  sails  that,  in  day- 


STRANGE  HAPPENINGS. 


501 


Df  them, 
rest  an<l 
^nature ; 
[lame  of 
3f  aston- 
ds  Bay- 
re  from 
t  into  a 
s  an  ac- 
i  in  the 
ete  were 

;(1,  on  the 
vhich,  as 
.  in  Bay- 

d  having 
and  with 
ly,  along 


)n 


heads 
in.  She 
undland. 
the  land 
ne  hand, 
d  across 
so  com- 
een  from 
ches,  out 
is  bound, 
ant-sails, 
,  in  day- 


light or  moonlight,  sit  so  jauntily  upon  these  wanderers 
of  the  sea.  Away  aloft,  they  look  as  if  they  were  taken 
out  of  the  strongest  of  the  mist,  and  cut  to  shape  and  tied 
down  to  the  yards.  The  high,  full  moon  can  do  little 
with  this  fog ;  and  by  way  of  warning  to  any  ship  that 
may  be  near,  a  sort  of  thunder  is  beaten  out  of  the  hollow 
of  a  cask,  and  a  sharp  look-out  kept.  "  Eight  bells,"  for 
four  o'clock  !  The  second  mate's  watch  is  turned  up  ;  the 
man  at  the  wheel  gives  up  the  helm  to  a  new  hand,  telling 
him  how  to  steer,  when  the  Captain,  who  stood  smoking 
forward  of  the  companion-way,  or  opening  to  the  cabin 
stairs,  feels  his  arm  squeezed  in  such  a  way  as  makes  him 
start  and  turn  round  suddenly.  He  asks,  at  the  same 
time, — 

"  Who  are  you  ?     What  do  you  want  ?  " 

"  Captain,"  answered  a  voice,  which  he  recognized  as 
that  of  the  late  helmsman,  though  his  face  was  so  strange 
that,  in  the  dimness,  he  did  not  at  first  know  it,  "  there's 
something  round  there  to  leeward." 

"  Why,  man  alive  !  what  are  you  talking  about  ?  and 
what  makes  you  look  so  ? "  said  the  Captain,  turning 
round  to  leeward,  and  straining  his  eyes  over  the  quarter- 
rail,  to  make  out  the  strange  sight ;  "  Tom,  look  out  on 
the  lee  quarter  ;  do  you  see  any  thing  ?  " 

"  It's  aboard  of  us,  Cap'n,"  said  the  man  who  had 
brought  the  alarm. 

"  Why,  you're  standing  up  and  dreaming  v;ith  your  two 
eyes  open  ;  don't  you  think  we  should  have  felt  it  by  this 
time  ?  " 

At  this  instant  a  cry  came  from  among  the  men  for- 
ward, which  made  the  Captain  leap  from  his  place  to  go 
toward  them.  A  strange  sort  of  cry  it  was,  of  several 
voices  in  one  ;  but  all  suppressed  by  fear. 


!•' 


502 


THE  NEW   PRIEST. 


"  What  ails  yc,  tliere  ?  "  he  called  out.  "  What  is  't  ? 
speak  out." 

As  he  came  abreast  of  the  cook's  galley,  the  second 
mate  eauie  rigiit  in  front  of  him,  holding  u\)  his  two  arms, 
without  saying  a  word. 

"  Why,  what's  the  matter  ?  For  mensy's  sake,  Mr. 
Keefe,  are  i/ou  mad  ?  "  the  Captain  shouted  to  him. 

"  'Bide  a  minute,  Cap'n  Noleswortli,"  said  the  mate, 
breathing  hard,  and  bcMiding  over  himself  to  recover 
breath  and  strength.  "  'Bide  a  minute,  sir  !  The  brig's 
all  right,  sir,"  he  said,  keeping  his  seaman's  pres(;nce  of 
mind  ;  "  but  there's  more  aboaril  than  ever  shipped  in 
her !  I'll  show  you,"  said  he ,  and,  holding  by  the 
weather  bulwarks,  he  went  forward. 

A  few  ste[)s  brought  him  to  a  stantl ;  and  saying,  in  a 
luisky  voice,  "There,  sir  !  "  he  pointed  with  his  lell  hand. 

The  Captain  followed  the  direction  of  his  hand,  and, 
looking  steadily  a  while,  made  out  a  figure,  white  and 
ghastly,  standing  near  the  lee  bulwarks  where  the  pale, 
misty  shimmer  of  the  mcon  fell  on  it,  under  the  foresail. 
It  seemed,  to  a  long,  searching  sight,  a  female  figure  ;  and 
it  almost  seemed  as  if  two  eyes  were  gazing,  with  a  dull 
glare,  out  of  the  face.  At  this  dim  hour,  in  misty  moon- 
light, amid  the  fright  of  men,  perhaps  Captain  Noles- 
worth  would  have  found  it  hard  to  keep  out  of  his  mind 
that  overmastering  fear  that,  in  the  minds  of  most  of  us, 
lies  rather  hidden  than  dead,  and  starts  up  some  time, 
suddenly,  when  we  feel  as  if  we  were  breaking  through 
into  the  land  of  spirits,  or  its  inhabitants  were  forcing  or 
feeling  their  way  to  us.  The  first  words  spoken  were  of 
a  kind  to  turn  the  scale,  if  it  were  balanced,  down  to  the 
side  of  awe  and  dread. 

"  I  sid  un  come  in  over  the  side,"  said  the  man  who 


!i 


STRANGE   HArrENINGS. 


503 


lit  18  't  ? 

1  second 
vo  arms, 

ke,  Mr. 

n. 

Hi  mate, 

recover 
le  brig'rt 
icmcc  of 
pped  in 

by  the 

ing,  in  a 
ii\  hand, 
md,  and, 
lite  and 
lie  pale, 
foresail, 
ire ;  and 
h  a  dull 
y  moon- 
Noles- 
lis  mind 
st  of  us, 
lie  time, 
through 
)rcing  or 
were  of 
n  to  the 

lan  who 


Imd  first  spoken  to  the  Captain,  of  the  strange  thing,  and 
who  had  now  followed  the  two  olliecirs  of  the  vessel  to  the 
8pot  where,  thry  luul  taken  stand.  "  'Xae'ly  ha  the  watch 
changed,  it  coined." 

'riu!  man  who  said  this  slinik,  like  a  living  mass  of 
fright,  h(!hiiid  the  second  inat(^ 

"  What  are  you  talking,  man  ?  "  said  the  Captain,  in  a 
low  voice,  and  keeping  his  place. 

As  the  mist  changed  and  fl(;eted  momentarily,  so  the 
figure  changed  ;  growing  now  dimmer  and  now  more  dis- 
tinct, much  like  the  thicker  suhstance  of  a  nebula,  while 
many  eyes  were  gazing,  jit  their  widest,  on  it. 

The  Captain  had  not  lost  himself,  old  sailor  as  he  was; 
for  he  c^Uled  out,  perciinptorily,  to  the  man  now  at  the 
helm,  "  What  are  you  doing  with  the  brig,  then;,  you  ? 
Keep  her  a  good  fidl  !  Can't  you  see  you've  got  her  all 
shaking  ?  Put  your  helm  up,  sir.  and  if  you  want  me  to 
take  you  away  from  the  wheel,  hit  me  know  it." 

Even  the  Captain's  voice,  speaking  so  much  to  the  pur- 
pose, h.id  a  strange,  thin  sound ;  it  was  not  like  itself.  It 
took  effect,  indeed,  upon  the  helmsman,  who  managed  to 
get  the  vessel  on  her  course  again,  although  with  a  good 
deal  of  unsteadiness  of  steering,  after  that ;  but  it  had  not 
the  effect  of  clearing  the  air  of  its  unearthly  influences,  or 
reassuring  those  who  had  been  struck  with  terror  by  the 
phantom. 

"  We  must  see  into  this  thing,"  the  Captain  said ;  "  T 
must  be  master  of  my  own  ship." 

The  watch  on  deck, — th(3  whole  crew,  perhaps, — are 
clustered  in  the  close  neighborhood  of  the  captain  and 
second  mate,  except  the  helmsman ;  who,  in  answer  to 
another  caution  of  the  master,  says  that  he  is  doing  his 
best;   but  that  the  brig  will  not  steer,  vrhile   That  is 


601 


THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


'tMii 


^.^rJ 


m 


m 


r'f'AV. 


1        ; 

■ 

H'-  ^ 

> 

1 

"U'li  .■ 

(                i 

■ 

UHfiiMi 

m  '• 

■  mMIj 

' 

■*f  *^^ 

'        '^f^; 

If      ' 

t                 J'i' 

^   1 

there ;  and  there,  in  the  mist,  as  a  wljitc  shell  in  deep 
water,  pjh^ams  the  sli^^ht  npparition. 

In  the  sauK!  instant  with  all  this,  the  nii^ty  shape  itself 
moved  from  its  place  ; — its  misty  robes  floating,  and  the 
mist  around  it  waving,  horribly. 

A  sort  of  shudder  seized  the  men,  and  they  crowded 
togetluM*,  still  more  (;losely. 

"  IMr.  K«'efe,  will  you  go  aft  and  take  the  helm?"  said 
the  Captain. 

"  Ay,  ay,  sir,"  said  the  second  mate,  aloud  ;  and  then 
drawing  close  to  Captain  Nolesworth,  he  said  privately, 
"  As  sure  as  I  live,  sir,  that's  Luey  Barbury's  ghost  I  " 
and  he  hurried  to  relieve  the  frightened  man  at  the  wheel. 

The  master  glanced  hastily  up  at  the  sails,  and  out 
upon  the  sea.  "  Go  forward,  men  !  "  said  he  to  the  crew. 
The  unsubstantial  shape  had  swayed  itself,  instantly,  back, 
and  seemed  leaning  against  the  bulwark,  and  still  gazing 
through  the  mist. 

"  She'll  bring  a  gale ! "  said  one  of  the  trembling 
crew,  from  where  they  had  clustered,  by  the  forward 
hatch. 

"  Keep  still  there,  with  your  foolishness  !  John  Ayers  ! 
you  and  Thompson  lay  out,  with  all  hands,  on  the  weather 
yard-arms,  and  rig  out  our  studding-sail-booms,  alow  and 
aloft !  Cheerily,  now  !  Away  with  ye  !  "  said  the  Cap- 
tain ;  but  even  the  Cr.ptain's  voice  sounded  foggy ;  and 
the  men  climbed  lubberly. 

Again  the  figure  moved  as  if  to  come  forward,  or 
seemed  to  move.  Intense  fear  seemed  to  strike  the  men 
motionless,  each  man  where  he  was. 

"  Look  out,  Cap'n  ! — behind  you  !  "  shouted  Keefe,  the 
second  mate.  A  murmur  arose,  also,  from  the  men  in 
the  rigging. 


in  deep 

ipe  itself 
,  and  the 

crowded 

n?"  said 

and  then 
privately, 
s  ghost !  '* 
he  wheel. 
,  and  out 
the  crew, 
itly,  back, 
till  gazing 

trembling 
forward 

in  Ayers ! 

e  weather 
alow  and 
the  Cap- 

ggy;  and 

rward,  or 
e  the  men 

i!eefe,  the 
e  men  in 


STRANGE   IIAPPENIXdS. 


50.') 


"  Where  di<l  you  come  from,  my  man  ?"  snid  the  Cap- 
tain, turning  short,  and  s<'izing  a  handspike  from  a 
tall,  strong  fellow  who  hail  it  lifted  in  air  with  both 
hands. 

•'  I  're  goun  to  heave  it  at  un  I  "  eried  the  man. 

"  Wait  till  I  hid  you,  or  take  care  I  don't  heavo 
you  overboard!"  said  Captain  Nolesworth.  "Go  for- 
ward ! " 

Again  tl'ere  was  an  exelamation  from  the  m(>n  ;  the 
Captain  turned,  and  the  figin'<'  \\\\,  gliding  fast  from  the 
waist  of  the  vessel,  where  it  had  been,  toward  the  stern. 
The  mist  waved  about  it,  as  if  the  two  were  of  one.  Its 
head  seemed  bound  up  with  a  misty  band,  as  that  of  a 
corpse  is  bound. 

A  movement  behind  him  made  the  Captain  turn 
quickly  ;  the  man  whom  he  had  disarmed  I.ad  his  huge 
weapon  raised,  again,  with  both  his  hands,  ready  to  throw 
it,  as  before. 

The  Captain  rushed  upon  him  ;  but  the  ugly  hand- 
spike, ere  Captain  Nolesworth  reached  him,  was  whirled 
acToss  the  deck  ; — and  then  a  cry,  such  as  had  not  yet 
been  heard  or  uttered  there,  went  up ;  a  strange  ghostly 
woman's  cry  ;  not  made  of  words,  and,  as  it  were,  half 
stifled  in  the  utterance. 

The  Captain  uttered  an  answering  cry,  himself,  and 
there  were  confused  voices  of  the  crew,  as  Captain  Noles- 
worth, in  an  instant,  throttled  and  threw  down  the  thoiiglit- 
less  ruffian.  When  he  sprang  up,  and  to  the  lee-side, 
nothing  was  there  but  the  bulwarks  with  thick  dew  upon 
them  ;  aft  was  the  hatch  over  the  companion-way ;  the 
wheel,  deserted, — and,  beyond,  two  dark,  human  figures 
against  the  stern-railing.  Tiiere  was  mist  everywhere ; 
but  of  the  animated  form  of  mi.t,  which,  slight  and  unsub- 


1  l;l'3 


1  h 


.  5' 


THE  NEW  PRIEST. 

stantial  itself,  had  made  stout  men  to  shake,  there  was  no 
trace.  He  hastily  looked  over  at  the  vessel's  wake  ;  but 
human  eye  could  see  only  a  very  little  way ;  no  glittering 
bubbles  were  there  ;  the  great  waves  rose  and  fell,  under 
a  close  cloud  of  fog. 

The  Captain  took  the  deserted  helm  in  time  to  prevent 
the  ship  from  getting  herself  taken  all  aback. 

— "  I  had  to  run,  to  keep  this  fellow,  here,  from  making 
way  with  himself,  sir,"  said  the  second  mate. 

"  He  wouldn't  have  gone  any  further  than  the  stern- 
boat,  I  don't  think,"  said  the  master ;  then,  dropping  the 
sneer,  his  voice  became  changed  and  sad,  as  he  said,  as 
if  he  were  continuing  a  conversation, — "and  what  became 
of  her  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  sir,"  answered  the  second  mate.  "  I 
couldn't  see  the  last  of  it ;  but,  as  sure  ns  I'm  standing 
on  this  quarter-deck,  sir,"  he  continued,  in  a  low  voice, 
apart,  to  the  Captain,  "  I  saw  that  face,  and  it  was  Lucy 
Barbury's." 

Keefe  was  a  Peterport  man  ;  the  Captain  was  a  Peter- 
port  trader. 

"  It  did  look  like  it !  "  said  he,  looking  up  at  the  sails 
and  then  down  into  the  binna,de.  All  was  still,  but  the 
rising  wind  and  washing  waves. 

A  spirit,  out  of  another  state  of  being  coming  back, 
cold  and  disembodied,  but  wearing  still  an  unsubstantial 
likeness  to  the  body  that  it  used  to  wear,  among  quick 
men,  of  flesh  and  blood, — the  hair  will  creep,  and  the 
flesh  crawl,  at  thought  of  it. 

The  men, — most,  or  all  of  them,  for  their  remissness 
had  been  tolerated,  for  the  moment, — drew  aft ;  and  all 
was  silent,  but  the  whirring  wind  and  washing  waves. 
By-and-by,  a  voice  among  them  murmured, — 


'e  was  no 
ake ;  but 
glittering 
till,  under 


0  prevent 

n  making 

he  stern- 
pping  the 
e  said,  as 
,t  became 

late.     "  I 

standing 

ow  voice, 

^as  Lucy 

a  Peter- 

the  sails 
,  but  the 

ng  back, 

ibstantial 

ng  quick 

and  the 

smissness 
;  and  all 


g  waves. 


STRANGE  HAPPENINGS. 


507 


"  Ef  we  had  akept  oui  ^*  this  'am  fog  !  They  things 
are  made  of  it." 

"  Ef  we  h;idn'  asailed  tull  to-morrow !  "   said  another 
"  We  got  a  warnun,  ef  we  'd  give  hoed  to  it,  when  we 
found  our  boat  aboard,  last  evenun,  with  ne'er  a  hand  to 
row  her ! " 

"  Mr.  Keefe,"  said  the  Cai)tain,  "  you  will  get  your 
watch  together,  if  you  please ;  and  let's  have  things 
orderly,  again  ;  and  men  ! "  he  added,  in  a  steady  tone 
of  authority,  "  if  you're  afraid,  I'm  not.  I  know  you're 
good  fellows ;  but  you'd  best  leave  talking,  and  let  me 
and  the  officers  of  the  brig,  manage  our  cwn  business. 
You  can  go  about  your  work  ;  I  don't  think  many  of  you 
know  where  you've  been,  this  last  while. — You'll  put  a 
man  at  the  wheel,  sir,  if  you  can  find  one. — Come  now," 
said  he,  by  way  of  putting  heart  into  the  crew,  who  had 
not  yet  recovered  their  composure,  "  which  of  ye  's  got 
his  sense  about  him  ?  " 

"  Captain  Noseworth,"  said  one  of  the  men,  "  I  sid  un 
go  over  the  side  just  like  a  great  whiter  bird,  in  a  manner, 
and  that  was  the  last  of  un.  It  was  about  so  big  as  a 
eagle  ;  much  the  same." 

"  When  did  you  ever  see  an  eagk  "  inquired  the  Cap- 
tain. 

"  Oh !  sir,  I  never  did  rae  one,  but  a  portray — " 

"  And  where  were  you,  sir  ? "  asked  the  master 
again. 

"  I  were  just  hereabouts,  sir,  as  you  may  say,*'  returned 
the  man. 

"  And  standing  up  on  your  feet  ?  "  asked  the  master. 

The  sight-seer  wa'^  silent.  The  first  mate,  whom  the 
Captain  now  saw,  for  the  first  time  since  he  had  turned 
in, — being  sick, — at  twelve  o'clock,  answered  for  him ;  he 


508 


THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


J     '' 


m  1   'I 


"I 


wasn't  on  his  feet,  when  I  picked  him  up  off  the  deck, 
face  down,  a  while  ago." 

"  I'm  afeared  you'll  laugh  on  me,"  said  another,  "  but  / 
was  on  my  feet,  and,  to  the  best  o'  my  notion,  it  went  light 
dov-n  through  tlie  deck,  and  never  went  over  the  side, 
at  all." 

The  mate  on  being  asked,  said  that  he  turned  out  of  his 
berth,  when  all  that  running  was  on  deck.  "  He  didn*t 
know  what  was  to  pay,  unless  the  foremast  was  walking 
off  and  the  men  after  it " 

Captain  Nolesworth  was  a  plain,  matter-of-fact  seaman, 
of  fifty  years'  age,  or  upwards,  and  very  sensible  and 
Avell-informed.  The  suns  of  many  climes  had  not  in 
vain,  done  each  its  part  in  giving  to  his  face  its  deep,  dark 
hue ;  nor  had  the  winds  of  many  countries  breathed  and 
blown  upon  him,  and  the  various  foliage  waved,  and  the 
many-shaped  and  colored  houses  and  towns  of  men  shut 
him  in,  and  the  manv-tongued  race  of  men  under  all  dif- 
ferent  governments,  and  with  all  different  manners,  dealt 
and  talked  with  him  in  vain.  He  was  a  listening  man, 
and  at  the  same  time,  hearty  and  cheery,  where  it  fell 
to  him  to  be  so,  and  always  ready  to  have  it  fall  to 
him. 

He  was  no  Newfoundlander,  though  trading  for  so 
many  years  into  and  out  of  Newfoundland.  He  was  not 
superstitious,  and  never  in  his  life  (so  he  ^rrote)  had  seen 
so  much  as  an  approach  to  confirmation  of  the  hundred 
stories  of  supernatural  appearances  that  he  had  heard  and 
read.  Still  he  was  a  man  ;  and  man  is  sure  that  tl^ere 
are  angels  and  spirits,  or  ghosts  and  disembodied  shapes  ; 
at  least  there  is  a  fear,  where  there  is  not  belief,  that  in 
the  smooth,  unbroken  wall  that  bounds  between  the  world 
of  flesh  and  that  of  spirit,  there  are  doors,  where  we 


iii 


STRANGE  HAPPENINGS. 


509 


he  deck, 

r,  «  but  / 
ent  light 
the  side, 

out  of  hii 
1q  didn*t 
i  walking 

;  seaman, 
sible  and 
d  not  in 
eep,  dark 
ithed  and 
,  and  the 
men  shut 
jr  ill  dif- 
ers,  dealt 
mg  man, 
e  it  fell 
lit  fall  to 

g  for  so 
was  not 
lad  seen 
hundred 
ard  and 
\?,i  ti^ere 
shapes ; 
that  in 
le  world 
lere  we 


cannot  see  them,  that  open  from  the  other  side.  More- 
over, the  very  faith  of  Christian  people  assures  them  that 
intercourse  has  been,  and  therefore  may  be,  between  the 
beings  of  another  state  and  those  of  ours ;  the  question, 
in  any  case,  is,  therefore,  as  to  the  fact  and  reason  of  the 
special  case,  and  not  the  reason  or  fact  of  such  things 
generally.  That  they  are  of  the  rarest,  and  only  for 
God's  special  purpose,  (unless  men  can  contrive  to  be 
familiar  with  the  devil's  ministers,)  we  know.  The  sacred 
common  sense  of  men,  where  it  mav  use  its  nostrils  and 
its  eyes,  laughs  at,  or  is  disgusted  with  the  legendary 
marvels  of  the  Romish  Breviary,  and  the  attempted 
systems  of  the  dealers  with  familiar  spirits  ! 

"  The  very  time !  "  the  Captain  said  ;  "  and  you  met 
nothing  on  the  companion-ladder  ?  " 

"  No  sir,  not  a  thing.  The  first  I  heard  was  after  1 
came  on  deck.  I  see  you  was  busy  and  I've  only  heard 
what  the  men  had  to  say. — It's  an  uncommon  queer  piece 
of  business ! " 

"  Well  now,  boys,  we've  had  enough  of  this,"  said  the 
Captain.  "  The  fog  's  clearing  off;  let  this  thing  go  with 
it ; "  then  looking  at  his  watch  by  the  binnacle  light,  (for 
day  was  not  yet  begun,)  he  said,  "  Let  them  strike  one 
bell  there,  forward,  Mr.  Keefe."  A  half-hour  had  passed 
since  this  strange  scene  began,  although  the  phantom  had 
been  seen  for  a  few  minutes  only. 

"  Get  those  studding-sail-booras  rigged  out,  sir,  if  you 
please,  as  they  ought  to  be  ; "  added  the  master ;  and 
from  that  time  forward,  he  kept  the  men  for  hours  occu- 
pied in  different  ways,  until  the  day  had  been  long  clear 
and  bright,  and  the  brig  was  fifty  miles  away  from  New- 
foundland. 

The  wind  came  fresher  and  fresher ;  the  wind  of  all 


m 


510 


THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


;i* 


U 


winds  for  them ;  and  the  tumbling  waves  tried  to  keep 
up  with  the  swift  vessel,  as  she  ran  through  the  water, 
carrying  all  sail  that  she  could  carry,  because  the  Captain 
said  they  would  be  likely  to  want  wind  before  they  saw 
Madeira. 


X 


i'! 


i---lh 


1  to  keep 

the  water, 

e  Captain 

they  saw 


THE  GHOST  AGAIN. 


511 


CHAPTER  LIV. 


THE   GHOST   AGAIN. 


|APTAIN  NOLES WORTH  had  persuaded  the 
chief  mate  to  go  down  again  ;  and  while  he  hira- 
&e^i  staid  on  deck,  until  late  in  the  forenoon,  and 
kept  an  eye  to  every  thing,  yet,  sometimes,  leaning  upon 
the  quarter-rail,  with  his  back  to  the  deck,  he  seemed  to 
lose  himself  in  thought. 

It  was  about  ten  o'clock  in  the  forenoon,  that  the 
master  went  below ;  and,  presently  coming  up,  called  to 
the  steward  to  go  down  forward,  and  see  what  was 
against  the  bulk-head  door  ;  (for  in  the  "  Spring-Bird  "  a 
door  opened  from  the  cabin  into  the  hold.)  The  man  sent 
had  scarcely  disappeared  before  he  came  out  of  the  hatch 
again,  in  all  fright. 

"  It's  the  ghost ! "  said  he  ;  and  the  cry  m^e  a  new 
stir  on  board.  The  second  mate,  who  had  -jUst  laid 
himself  down  on  deck,  sprang  down  the  hatchway, 
and  the  Captain  hurried  from  the  cabin  and  followed 
him. 

The  weight  that  lay  against  the  bulk-head-door,  was 
indeed, — as  they  could  make  out  by  the  daylight  coming 
down  through  the  broad  opening  in  the  deck, — a  girl's 
body.  It  lay,  asleep  or  dead,  with  the  right  arm  under 
the  cJKiek,  the  eyes  closed,  and  the  rich,  black  hair,  loosed 


W'  '' 


512 


THE  NEW   FKlEbT. 


frc.^  under  the  cap,  lying  like  a  black  flood  upon  the 
shoulders. 

"  Well !  Well ! "  said  the  Captain,  throwing  up  his 
hands. 

"  That's  her,  and  no  mistake  !  "  said  Mr.  Keefe  ;  and 
the  two  lifted  her  tenderly,  as  sailors  dc,  and  opening  the 
door  against  which  she  had  leaned,  carried  her  through 
and  laid  her  on  the  cabin-floor. 

"  This  must  be  something  she's  taken,"  said  the  Cap- 
tain ;  "  but  how,  on  earth,  did  she  come  aboard  of  us, 
after  all  ?  "  (It  must  be  remembered  that  he  had  sailed 
four  days  after  her  disappearance.) 

"  That  boat  didn't  come  aboard  without  hands,  that 
other  night,"  said  the  second  mate. 

They  lost  no  time  in  applying  restoratives,  such  as 
years  of  expei'ience  had  made  the  Captain  familiar  with, 
and  his  medicine-chest  furnished  ;  and  presently  brought 
her  to  consciousness. 

"  There  !    Thank  God  ! "  said  the  master. 

"  Amen  !  "  said  the  mate  and  second  mate. 

She  looked  a  little  wildly,  and  her  mind  was  a  few 
moments  in  gathering  itself  together  ;  and  even  then,  she 
was  weak  and  faint ;  but  it  was  Lucy  Barbury,  herself,  a 
good  deal  worn  and  wasted,  but  with  something  of  her  own 
brightness  in  her  eye,  and  of  her  own  sweet  smile  at  her  lip. 

She  spoke  first,  asking  abruptly : — 

"  How  did  I  get  there  ?  " 

"  That  we  can't  tell  you  ; "  said  the  Captain,  "  if  you 
can't  tell  us." 

"  Are  father  and  mother  alive  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Captain  Nolesworth,  and  then  turned  to 
his  second  mate :  "  Here's  Mr.  Keefe,"  said  he,  "  that 
knows  all  about  things,  better  than  I  do." 


THE   GHOST  AGAIN. 


513 


The  second  mate  answered  every  thing  very  satis- 
factorily ;  and  then,  putting  a  check  upon  their  own 
curiosity,  they  had  some  tea  and  brewse,*  made  in  the 
best  art  of  the  ship's  cook,  and  by  the  time  she  had  satis- 
fied her  appetite,  (wliich  was  good  enough  to  encourage 
the  captain  much,)  she  was  put  in  possession  of  one  of 
the  two  state-rooms  that  the  brig  counted  and  left  to 
rest. 

The  brig  was  a  changed  thing  with  her  on  board. 
Had  she  had  but  the  histoi-y  of  the  last  night  about  her, 
it  would  have  been  much ;  but  every  sailor  in  the  ship 
was  soon  talking  of  the  lovely  and  wonderful  character 
of  her  life  at  home. 

The  wind  grew  lighter  as  day  declined ;  but  the  sick 
girl  grew  better  there  at  sea, — perhaps  was  already 
getting  better  when  she  came  on  board,  and  here  she 
was,  missed  and  mourned  in  Peterport,  and  strangely 
enough,  wandering  off  upon  the  ocean. 

"  If  we  hadn't  been  all  fools  together  last  night,"  said 
the  captain,  when  he  was  out  of  her  hearing,  "  we  might 
have  stood  a  chance  of  landing  her ;  but  we  must  make 
the  best  of  it  now." 

Her  story  was  soon  told  when  they  could  get  it ;  she 
only  remembered  being  at  Mr.  Urston's  and  seeing  Mrs. 
Calloran,  before  finding  herself  in  a  room  with  two  nuns, 
at  Bay- Harbor.  They  told  her  tliat  Father  Nicholas 
was  offering  up  the  mass  for  her,  and  the  Sisters  were 
fasting  and  praying  for  her,  and  she  would  go  home  as 
soon  as  she  was  well  enough.  She  did  not  know  how 
many  days  she  had  been  there,  for  her  memory  of  the 
time  was  much  confused,  and  of  the  day  of  her  escape 
particularly,  whether  from  the  effect  of  medicine  or  some 
*  Ship-bread  soaked  into  a  pulp  in  warm  water. 

83 


m 


,  I. 


514 


THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


1 1 


I,'  i 


'•'  'fi 


i-     I 


Other  cause,  her  recollection  was  not  distinct.  She  heard 
them  speak  of  the  "  Spring  Bird"  being  about  to  sail  for 
Madeira,  and  after  the  nuns  were  in  bed,  between  nine 
and  ten  o'clock,  she  put  on  a  white  dress  which  had  been 
made  in  the  nunnery  for  her,  threw  a  cloak  and  hood 
over  her  and  escaped.  She  had  a  sort  of  fancy  in  her 
mind  at  the  time,  that  she  was  a  slave  whose  story  she 
had  read.  To  scull  a  boat  was  easy  and  natural  to  her 
as  to  walk  the  street. 

"  Yes,  that's  the  way  our  boat  came  aboard,  when  we 
were  ashore,  all  hands  but  Dick  (he's  a  bright  chap  !). 
It  would  be  almost  a  good  job  to  pitch  that  letter  we  got 
from  the  nunnery  for  Funchal,  into  the  sea  to  the  sharks," 
said  Keefe. 

— "  So  that  youngster  that  wanted  to  ship  with  me,— 
the  one  that  was  going  to  be  a  priest," — said  the  captain, 
by  way  of  particularizing,  "  is  a  cousin  of  yours  ?  " 

Lucy  colored.     "  Not  my  full  cousin,"  said  she. 

"  Well,  he  looked  like  a  fine  fellow,  only  he  was  out  of 
heart  when  he  came  to  me." 

Lucy,  in  her  innocent  way,  began  eagerly, — 

"  Was  that  after ?  "  and  there  stopped. 

"  I  don't  know  what  had  been  before  it,"  said  the  Cap- 
tain, significantly,  and  smiling  at  the  same  time ;  "  but  it 
was  before  you  went  away.  He  gave  that  all  up  though, 
and  he's  safe  enough  at  home,  I  think." 

Time  went  on.  The  Captain  did  his  best  to  keep  her 
in  good  spirits,  and  was  a  cheery  man,  and  everybody  on 
board  was  ready  to  do  any  thing  for  the  pretty  maiden's 
pleasure.  The  only  real  chivalry  extant  in  this  age  is 
in  sailors,  and  they  treated  her  like  a  queen.  A  great 
many  things  were  continually  contrived  and  done  to 
amuse  her ;  but  it  will  easily  be  thought,  that  though  her 


THE  GHOST  AGAIN. 


515 


I  heard 
sail  for 
in  nine 
id  been 
d  hood 
in  her 
ory  she 
1  to  her 

^hen  we 
chap  !). 
?  we  got 
sharks," 

h  me,— 
captain. 


e. 

IS  out  of 


the  Cap- 
«  but  it 
though, 

keep  her 

ybody  on 

maiden's 

lis  age  is 

A  great 

done   to 

lOugh  her 


strong  constitution  rallied  from  the  fever,  yet  it  was  im- 
possible for  her  to  be  happy  or  at  ease,  knowing  that  at 
home  there  must  be  mourning  for  her  as  for  one  lost,  and 
that  gray  hairs  most  dear,  might  for  her  sake  be  bending 
in  sorrow  toward  the  grave. 

Still  no  one  tried  to  entertain  her,  so  hard  as  she  to 
cheer  herself. 

The  passage  to  Madeira  was  a  long  one.  After  their 
first  fine  favoring  wind  came  a  dead  calm,  and  twelve 
hours  after  a  gale  began  to  blow  under  the  summer  sky, 
and  blew  them  down  many  a  league,  and  then  they 
woi'ked  up  again,  past  the  Azores  as  well  as  they  could 
with  fickle  baffling  winds. 

It  was  clear  weather  when  they  first  got  sight  of  land, 
some  sixty  miles  away,  and  then  the  towering  peaks  rose 
up  more  and  more  plainly,  and  as  they  drew  in  towards 
Funclial  in  early  evening,  the  luxuriant  light  and  dark 
green  of  the  foliage  showed  themselves  through  that  at- 
mosphere, which  seems  to  be  the  property  of  such  a 
climate,  and  there  came  out  over  the  water  sweet  smells, 
that  had  been  gathering  for  the  many  centuries  that  this 
lovely  spot  has  lain  under  its  sun  ;  but  the  eyes  of  our 
Newfoundland  maiden  were  full  of  tears  for  the  homely 
island,  poor  and  barren,  that  held  her  father's  house,  and 
for  those  that  she  knew  had  wept  and  still  were  weeping 
for  her.* 

*  Years  after  the  latest  edition,  a  lady  told  the  author  a  story,  all  in 
her  own  knowledge,  of  an  heiress,  taught  in  a  ^Montreal  convent,  lost 
the  day  after  coming  to  her  fortune;  followed  against  denials,  almost 
without  clew,  and  found  in  a  convent  in  Detroit,  bitterly  ruing  and 
homesick. — 1889. 


516 


THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


CHAPTER  LV. 


MKS.    CALLORAN'S   REVELATIONS. 


i>TM 


Hit  D'^'i 


I 


HE  letters  from  Captain  Nolesworth  and  his 
second  mate,  containing  this  intelligence  from 
the  lost  maiden,  had  been  sent  from  London, 
(to  which  place  the  "  Spring  Bird  "  had  gone  with  a  cargo 
from  Madeira,)  and  the  writers  "  expected  to  be  in  New- 
foundland, if  nothing  happened  more  tiian  usual,  as  soon 
as  the  letters." 

As  Mr.  Wellon  read,  he  kept  his  horse  at  a  brisk  walk 
toward  Bay-Harbor,  and  as  he  finished  reading,  informed 
the  carrier,  who  had  managed  to  keep  by  his  side,  that 
Skipper  George's  daughter  was  on  her  way  home  from 
England,  and  then  gave  a  kind  message  to  the  astonished 
man  of  letters  for  Skipper  George,  to  be  left  at  the  River- 
head  of  Peterport,  at  Mr.  Pi[)er's.  "  I'll  take  it  down  to 
un  myself,"  said  the  man,  who  was  athirst  for  more  intel- 
ligence about  this  strange  case.  Mr.  Wellon  then  hurried 
forward  and  found  the  Attorney-General  still  at  his 
lodgings. 

"  It's  good  we  couldn't  hang  him  for  murdering  her," 
said  the  Attorney-General,  when  he  had  heard  the  Parson's 
story ;  "  though  he  deserves  it  for  other  things  that  the 
law  wouldn't  hang  him  for;  but  Bangs  and  Ladford  were 
right,   and  they  must  have  had  her  drugged  when  they 


MRS.   CALLORAN'S   REVELATIONS. 


ni 


and  his 
ce  from 
London, 
1  a  cargo 

in  New- 
,  as  soon 

isk  walk 
nformed 
ide,  that 
ne  from 
onished 
e  River- 
down  to 
re  intel- 
hurried 
at   his 

ng  her,'* 
Parson's 
that  the 
•rd  were 
en  they 


took  lier  from  I'etcrport,  and  when  they  were  showing 
the  Yankee  round  the  nunnery.  I  wish  he'd  had  a  good 
taste  of  prison  with  Mrs.  Calloran.  We  can  luive  him 
again,  and  cast  him  in  exemplary  damages,  if  you  like. 
Is  there  anybody  to  prosecute  ?  I'll  get  it  argued  and 
without  fees." 

"I  think  we  could  manage  that,"  said  Mr.  Wellon, 
thinking. 

"  We  will  manage  it  somehow,"  said  the  lawyer. 

Meantime  the  news  went  stirring  up  the  people  all 
round  the  Bay,  and  bringing  happiness  to  more  than  one 
fond  heart  in  Peterport. 

A  warrant  was  got  out  for  Father  Nicholas's  arrest 
again ;  but  Father  Nicholas  was  not  to  be  found. 

Judge  Beam  determined  to  prolong  his  stay  for  a  few 
days,  to  attend  to  the  preliminary  steps  of  the  case,  (as  it 
was  likely  to  be  a  proceeding  very  distasteiul  to  a  good 
many  [)eople ;)  but  the  accused  could  not  be  found  at  the 
Mission  premises,  nor  anywhere  else,  and  the  best  infor- 
mation that  could  be  got  of  him  was,  that  he  had  been  in 
the  house  the  night  before,  at  about  nine  o'clock.  From 
that  time  nothing  had  been  seen  of  him. 

The  packet-boats  in  the  Bay  were  overhauled,  and  for 
a  day  or  two  all  places  in  which  there  was  any  likeli- 
hood of  finding  him  or  hearing  of  him,  w^ere  visited  in 
vain. 

On  Saturday  Mr.  Weilon,  before  going  home,  called 
on  the  Attorney-General  and  learned  the  result. 

"  Depend  upon  it,  he's  one  of  those  persons  "^hat  go 
through  this  world  unwhipped,"  said  the  Attorney.  "  It's 
one  of  those  cases  that  enforce  Bishop  Butler's  argument 
for  future  retribution. — Calloran  would  be  rather  small 
game.     Wouldn't  she  ?  " 


'  i 


518 


TIIK   NKW    PRIKST. 


:^ffT 


ur 


V,i- 


m 


■m;  vi     'I 


"  O  yo.s !  "  said  the  Parson ;  "  but  I  should  like  her 
nrcount  of  the  way  in  which  it  was  done,  to  fill  up  the 
breaks  in  our  story ; — if  we  eouM  get  it." 

"  I  fancy  tliat  wouldn't  be  hard,"  said  the  lawyer,  "  that 
constable  of  yours  seem:'  to  have  an  instinct  for  nosing 
her  out.  We've  kept  him  for  the  week,  as  he  seemed  a 
good  fellow,  and  I'll  set  him  on,  and  hear  his  report  of 
the  experiment  this  afternoon,  at  Castle-Bay ; — I've  a 
little  business  there  with  an  old  servant." 

Gilpin  was  easily  got,  and  accepted  the  commission 
with  some  satisfaction. 

Mr.  Wellon,  having  occasion  to  stay  in  Bay-Harbor, 
gave  him  afterward  a  message  for  Skipper  George. 

"  Couldn't  you  ask  him  to  come  over  to  Castle-Bay  ?  " 
inquired  the  Attorney.  "  Lawyers  are  not  a  sentimental 
race,  and  when  we've  done  our  best  with  a  case,  are  apt 
to  dismiss  it ;  but  I  confess  I  should  like  to  see  this 
father." 

The  Parson  hesitated.  "I  shouldn't  like  to  summon 
Skipper  George  to  come  to  me,"  said  he.  "  I've  made 
an  appointment  with  him  at  his  own  house ;  but  if  you 
desire  it,  sir,  he'll  come  with  pleasure,  no  doubt." 

"  No,  no ;  I'll  take  a  hint  from  your  example ;  why 
should  T  be  summoning  him  up  and  down  ?  I  may  find 
time  to  go  round  and  see  him." 

The  two  rode  up  to  Castle-Bay  together,  and  as  they 
came  to  a  turn  of  the  road  near  the  beach,  having  been 
remarking  on  tlie  gentle  beauties  of  the  landscape,  which 
showed  themselves,  one  after  another,  as  the  riders  [ad- 
vanced, the  legal  gentleman  exclaimed, — 

"  That  must  be  your  Skipper  George,  now ; "  as  it 
was, — in  Gilpin's  company.  He  came  along  the  beach, 
tall,  strong,  and  trusty-looking  as  a  mast.     There  was  a 


MRS.   OALLORAN'S   REVELATIONS. 


r}]^ 


like  her 
,  up  the 

er,  "  that 
r  nosing 
5eemo(l  ti 
•eport  of 
— I've  a 

mmission 

-Harbor, 

•ge. 

le-Bay?" 
ntimental 
B,  are  apt 

>  see  this 

>  summon 

*ve  made 

ut  if  you 
>» 

pie ;  why 
may  find 

d  as  they 
ving  been 
pe,  which 
riders  cd- 

7 ',"  as  it 
he  beach, 
3re  was  a 


glad  look  in  his  face  that  lately  had  not  been  there.     In 


h 


man 


saluting  his   pastor,  tl 

tionate  deference  was  beautiful. 

"  Tills  is  the  Honorable  Attorney-Geneial,  that  pleaded 
the  cause  at  Hay-Harbor,"  said  the  Parson ;  and  the 
iisherinan  bowed,  with  very  grave  respect,  to  the  eminent 
lawyer,  while  the  constable's  eye  twinkled  and  his  face 
glistened,  on  the  occasion. 

"  'Tvvas  very  kind  of  'eo,  sir,  and  I  humbly  thank  'ee ; 
but  I'm  glad  there  hasn'  any  body  done  a  murder." 

"  And  I'm  glad  your  daughter  is  alive  to  come  back," 
said  the  Attorney.  "  Few  parents  have  such  children,  to 
lose  and  recover." 

"  A  child  is  a  child,  I  suppose,  sir ;  but  she's  a  wonder- 
ful child  for  the  like  o'  me,  surely,  sir.  Ef  it's  the  Lord's 
will  for  Lucy  to  come  back,  there'll  be  a  many  proud  to 
see  her,  I  believe." 

At  the  moment,  while  he  spoke,  something  caught  his 
eye,  to  seaward,  from  which,  having  glanced  Jit  it,  he 
turned  hastily  away ;  then,  looking  straight  ui)on  it,  while 
his  companions  having  followed  the  direction  of  his  eye, 
could  see  the  square,  white  canvas  of  a  vessel  coming  up 
the  Bay,  he  said  : — 

"  It's  Skipper  Edward  Ressle's  schooner,  from  the 
Larbadore." 

Of  course,  then,  it  was  not  the  "  Spring-Bird,"  bring- 
ing his  daughter,  as  a  less  sure  glance  might  have  mis- 
taken it. 

"  In  good  time,  ef  it's  His  good  will,"  he  said,  again, 
answering,  in  words,  to  what  might  have  been  an  un- 
spoken thought  of  his  companions,  and  doubtless  was  his 
own  thought. 

"'Twould  be  too  much  trouble  for  'ee  to  sro  down  to 


'.  I' 


> 


L^H 

:   1 

\ 

1 

1 

M  > 


520 


THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


ji 


!■'  if 


my  house  a-purpose,  sir ; — and  this  excellent  gentleman," 
he  said  to  the  past(jr. 

"  I  must  go  down,  of  course,"  said  Mr.  Wellon. 

"  And  I'll  go  about  my  business,"  said  the  Attorney- 
General.  "  These  parsons  have  the  advantage  of  us  ; — 
you  have  to  do  with  all  the  best  people ;  and  the  be^t 
part  of  all  people' 

"  Not  always  the  best,"  said  the  Parson  ;  "  but  in  a 
way  to  give  us  inducemcxits  enough  to  be  true  and  honest 
to  our  office." 

"  Clargy  are  a  comfort  to  a  body,  surely,  sir;  an'  it 
didii'  seem  altogether  riujlit  after  tlie  news  corned,  tull  we 
could  get  our  reverend  gentleman  to  make  a  bit  of  a 
pr'yer." 

"  We're  all  interested  in  the  constable's  news,  if  he's 
got  any,"  said  the  Attorney ;  "  and  we  may  as  well  hear 
it,  together.     How  is  it.  Constable  ?  " 

Gilpin  had  got  Mrs.  Calloran  to  tell  her  own  story,  thus: 

"  I  niver  got  her  Sure,  'twas  Almighty  God  an'  His 
Blissed  Mother  brought  her  to  me,  like  a  fish  to  the  hook, 
in  a  manner.  '  Glory  be  tc  God ! '  sis  I.  *  Sure,  Her- 
self brought  her  to  this,*  sis  I,  seein'  'twas  the  Daj'  o'  the 
Consumption  o'  the  Blissed  Vargin,  'twas.  Wasn't  she 
quite  spint,  beyant,  by  the  fence  ?  an'  what  should  I  do, 
but  tuk  her  in  me  arms,  and  brought  her  in  and  laid  her 
an  the  bid  ?  '  Sure,'  sis  I,  '  Lucy,  dear,  it's  dyin'  y'are  ; 
an'  won't  ye  die  in  the  true  Church?'  sis  I.  'I've  no 
doubt,'  sis  she ;  jest  that  way :  '  I've  no  doubt,'  sis  she." 

"  But  how  could  you  get  the  doctor  to  her,  before  they 
carried  her  away?"  asked  the  constable,  making  no  com- 
mencs. 

"  Wasn't  he  at  Barney  Rorke's  wife  that  got  the  sprain, 
just  beyant?"  asked  Mrs.  Calloran.     So,  I  called  um. 


fi::  I 


MRS.   CALLORAN'S  REVELATIONS. 


atleman," 


A-ttorney- 
of  us ; — 
the  best 

'but  in  a 
nd  honest 

ir;  an'  it 
}d.  tull  we 
I  bit  of  a 

vs,  if  he's 
well  hear 

tory,  thus : 
an'  His 
the  hook, 
iure,  Her- 
aj'  o'  the 
asn't  she 
luld  I  do, 
,d  laid  her 
in'  y'are ; 
'I've  no 
is  she." 
fore  they 
Icj  no  com- 

le  sprain, 
lalled  um. 


5:1 


"  '  Good  mornin, — no,  but  good  evenun  to  ye,  Dr.  Mon;,' 
sis  I.  '  I  hope  y'are  will,  sir,'  sis  I.  '  I  want  yer  opinion,' 
Bis  I,  if  ye'd  be  plased  to  walk  this  way.  It's  some  one 
that's  dyun,  sir,'  sis  I.  With  that  he  came  in  ('twas  a 
little  dark,  with  the  shawl  pinned  at  the  windy)  : — '  Don't 
go  too  near  her  face,  for  fear  her  breath's  infractions,'  sis 
I.  '  I  didn't  bring  a  hght,  sir,'  sis  I. — '  Indeed,  it's  not 
needed,  Ma'am,'  sis  he.  '  Isn't  she  spacheless  and  sinse- 
less,  Ma'am  ?  '  sis  he. — '  That's  it,  sir,'  sis  I,  '  exactly.' — 
'  An'  did  ye  sind  for  the  praste,  Ma'am  ? '  sis  he.  '  I 
hadn't  time,  sir,'  sis  I,  '  'twas  that  sudden ;  but  I'd  give 
the  world  for  um,  this  minit,'  sis  I. — '  Thin,  Ma'am,'  sis 
he,  'my  deliv-er-id  opinion  is  she'll  niver  come  out  o' 
this,  without  a  mirycle  af  Holy  Churrch,'  sis  he.  An'  with 
that  the  door  opened,  just  upan  the  very  word,  an'  his 
riverence.  Father  Nicholas,  came  in,  an'  found  the  way 
she  was ;  an'  I  touid  um  the  words  she  said  about  the 
Churrcn  ;  an'  he  said  she  ought  to  have  the  best  of  care ; 
an'  he  asked  Dr.  More,  '  Had  he  anny  dyne  to  give  her 
to  quite  her.'  " 

«  And  who's  Dr.  More  ?  " 

"  He's  a  good  Catholic,  thin,"  said  Mrs.  Calloran,  de- 
cidedly ;  an'  he's  chape — " 

"  And  a  wise  fellow,"  said  Gilpin. 

"  Why  wouldn't  he  be,  then  ? "  said  she,  warmly. 
"  Himself  as  good  as  tould  me  tliat  the  rist  o'  thim  knew 
nothing ;  his  name's  Doctlier  Patrick  McKillara  IVIore  ; 
an'  it's  something  to  the  Duke  Gargyll,  he  is  (only  he's 
a  Scotsman  and  a  heretic)  ;  an'  he's  called  a  veterin 
surgeon  (it's  likely  he's  surgeon  to  the  troops  at  Harbor 
Grace,  or  something ;  an',  indeed,  'twould  be  a  good  day 
they'd  get  a  good  Catholic  Irishman  to  be  surrgeon  to  the 
British  Army)." 


1     i 


Hi 


ft  '':^ 


I  h 


'i 


¥   t  I 


522 


THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


"Did  you  get  her  baptized  by  the  Priest?"  asked 
Gilpin,  blandly. 

Mrs.  Calloran  stirred  the  kitchen  fire :  "  I'm  thinking 
it's  small  good  her  baptism  '11  be  to  her,"  she  said,  rather 
aside. 

"  But  you  got  her  baptized  ?  " 

Mrs.  Calloran  tliis  time  was  silent. 

"  Well !  "  said  the  constable,  "  I  must  say,  I  think  you 
and  the  Priest,  and  the  nuns,  too,  (I  don't  say  any  thing 
about  your  '  veterin  surgeon  to  the  British  Army,'  as  ye 
call  him, — that's  a  horse-doctor, — for  I  suppose  he's  a 
great  l^ooby ;)  I  think  you  all  deserve  a  good  lesson,  if 
you  didn't  get  it.  I'd  advise  ye  next  time  your  neighbor's 
child  comes  in  your  way,  when  she's  lost,  dont  you  steal 
her." 

"  A  simple  lesson  in  morals  that  she'll  do  well  to  profit 
by,"  said  the  Parson,  commenting  upon  Gilpin's  story 
when  it  was  finished. 

"  We  ^-"^ow  whom  to  look  to  if  any  more  young  peo- 
ple disappear,"  said  the  Attorney ;  "  and  have  a  key  to 
the  method  of  kidnapping.  Well,  it  was  for  fear  of  the 
young  lady  running  off  with  Mrs.  Calloran's  nurse-child, 
it  would  seem  ;  I  trust  (if  he's  a  good  fellow,  and  there's 
no  great  objection)  that  Mrs.  Calloran  will  live  to  see 
that  feat  performed." 

Tlie  father,  quite  absorbed  with  the  circumstances  of 
his  daughter's  disappearance,  which  he  now  heard  for  the 
first  time,  said  to  his  pastor, — 

"  So  that's  how  it  was,  sir  !  There  are  strange  things 
in  this  world,  surely  ;  but  the  good  Lord's  over  all !  " 

The  party  here  separated ;  and  we  leave  the  lawyer  to 
attend  to  his  business  at  Castle-Bay,  and  the  man  of 
prayer  to  go  and  present  before  God  the  family  offering 
in  Skipper  George's  house. 


t?"  asked 


LUCY'S   HOME-COMING. 


523 


n  thinking 
said,  rather 


i 


think  you 
T  any  thing 
:my,'  as  ye 
tose  he's  a 
i  lesson,  if 
•  neighbor's 
t  you  steal 

ell  to  profit 
Ipin's  story 

young  peo- 
e  a  key  to 
fear  of  the 
nurse-chikl, 
and  there's 
live  to  see 

istances  of 
ard  for  the 

mge  things 
rail!" 
e  lawyer  to 
he  man  of 
lily  offering 


CHAPTER  LVl. 


LUCYS    nOME-COMING. 


EVERAL  of  the  schooners,  but  not  all  of  those 
that  had  been,  during  the  summer,  at  Labrador, 
had  come  merrily  home,  with  colors  flying  and  all 
Bail  set,  and  muskets  now  and  then  fired  off,  and  with  now 
and  then  a  cheer  from  the  happy  c.  ow.  Tlie  harbor  was, 
of  course,  fulicr  of  people  and  more  astir  with  them,  than 
it  had  been  for  months  ;  the  harbor-road  was  more  fre- 
quented, iind  disused  flakes  were  thronged. 

The  story  of  the  strange  happenings  had  been  told  and 
retold,  at  flake  and  fireside,  and  now  there  was  a  general 
longing  and  looking  out  for  the  home-coming  of  the  "  Spring 
Bird  "  and  Skipper  George's  long-lost  daughter.  The  other 
schooners,  too,  from  Labrador,  were  more  quietly  expected. 
The  weather  was  very  beautiful,  and  summer  was  gently 
resting  after  its  work  done.  The  sky  was  blue  as  the 
deep  sea ;  and  just  enough  spotted  with  white  clouds  to 
show  its  blueness  fairly.  The  soft  and  pleasant  wind 
came  over  and  through  the  inland  woods,  and  blew 
steadily  out  over  the  Bay,  to  the  Fair  Island  and  St. 
John's. 

On  such  an  October  day  Mrs.  Barre  and  Miss  Dare 
were  walking  together  down  the  harbor,  and  drew  near 
the  top  of  Whitmonday  Hill.     In  outward  appearance 


U 


524 


THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


f  l;i 


i 


a 


t.i  1 


I   i 


f 


11 


f 


¥ 


'I' 


m 


'I  »r 


I 


Mrs.  Barre  had  not  changed  much  ;  but  she  was,  perhaps, 
more  restless,  and  sought  occupation  more  eagerly,  now 
that  her  great  work  was  taken  out  of  her  liands,  and  she 
had  only  to  wait  for  the  great  issue  of  it.  Her  husband 
must  be,  by  this  time,  in  Halifax,  if  nothing  had  happened 
to  him,  and  in  a  few  weeks  moi'e,  after  her  long  widow- 
hood, she  might  hope  to  have  him  restored  to  her,  from 
whom  she  ought  never  to  have  been  separated,  in  this 
short  and  uncertain  life.  More  than  one  long  letter  she 
had  got  from  him,  in  the  few  days  that  he  was  detained  at 
New-Harbor,  before  sailing ;  and  more  than  one  she  had 
written  to  him  ;  and  now  they  were  cut  off  from  each 
other  for  a  Avhile,  with  the  prospect  of  soon  joining  their 
lives  together  in  one,  not  to  be  again  separated,  unless  by 
death. 

The  two  ladies  stopped  on  the  top  of  Whitmonday 
Hilj,  and  at  the  moment  a  white  sail  was  crossing  so 
much  of  the  Bay  as  was  open  to  them  where  they  stood. 

"  There's  a  schooner  from  Labrador  for  some  harbor 
up  the  Bay,"  said  Miss  Dare.  "  She's  heading  for  Blaz- 
ing Head,  now  !  "  said  she,  again,  as  she  watched  the  sight 
which  is  always  so  interesting.  "  She's  coming  in  here,  de- 
pend upon  it ;  they  expect  Abram  Marchant  next.  Let's 
wait  and  see  her  come  in." 

Mrs.  Barre  fixed  her  eyes  upon  the  moving  vessel  in 
silence,  and  an  unusual  glow  of  interest  was  given,  even 
to  their  deep  seriousness ;  the  coming  in  of  an  absent 
vessel  had  much  meaning  for  her. 

The  fair,  broad,  white  spread  of  canvas  came  steadily  on ; 
a  most  lovely  sight  to  look  upon.  The  wind,  as  we  have 
said,  was  blowing  out  of  the  harbor,  and  any  vessel  enter- 
ing must  tack  within  it.  The  sail  in  question  stood  steadily 
across,   without  stirring  tack  or  sheet,  towards  Blazing 


s,  perhaps, 
gerly,  now 
>s,  and  she 
;r  husband 
1  happened 
»ng  widow- 
I  her,  from 
;ed,  in  this 
;  letter  she 
detained  at 
le  she  had 
from  each 
ining  their 
1,  unless  by 

''hitmonday 
crossing  so 
hey  stood. 
)me  harbor 
<r  for  Blaz- 
id  the  sight 
in  here,  de- 
ext.    Let's 


vessel  in 
ven,  even 
an  absent 


teadily  on ; 
we  have 
Issel  enter- 
Id  steadily 
Is  Blazing 


LUCY'S  HOME-COMING. 


525 


Head  ;  she  was  now  fairly  inside,  and  distant  two  or  three 
miles ;  a  fine,  large  craft,  and  handled  beautifully.  Now 
she  went  about,  her  sails  shook  and  flapped  as  she  crossed 
the  wind,  and  then  filled  on  the  other  tack,  and  showed  all 
her  broadside. 

"And  what's  the  matter  with  the  mosquito  fleet?* 
they're  all  coming  in,  as  f{ist  as  they  can  row  ;  there  must 
be  a  death  on  board.     No ;  she's  got  all  her  colors  Hy- 

hig  : It  must  be  Lucy  I  it  must  be  Lucy!     That's 

the  '  Spring  Bird  ! '  There's  Uncle's  house-flag ;  and 

there's  Lucy ! " 

Mrs.  Barre  did  not  escape  the  excitement  that  ani- 
mated her  companion  ;  and  tears,  that  had  been  so  familiar 
to  her  eyes,  came  quietly  into  them. 

"  It's  very  likely  indeed,"  said  she ;  "  it's  time  to  look 
for  her." 

"  It  is  she  ;  I  see  her  at  this  distance  ;  that  white  fig- 
ure, standing  near  the  stern.  Ah !  my  dear  Mrs.  Barre, 
don't  cry  ;  there'll  be  a  happier  return  yet,  before  long ;  '* 
and  she  put  her  arm  round  her  friend's  waist. 

Confident  that  she  was  right.  Miss  Dare  began  to  wave 
her  handkerchief.  Certainly,  the  punts  were  all  coming 
in  for  dear  life  ;  while  the  brig,  with  her  broad  canvas, 
held  her  way  steadily  and  without  a  sound  ;  and  presently, 
when  nearly  opposite  Frank's  Cove,  went  deliberately  and 
most  gracefully  about  again.  This  tack  would  bring  her 
well  up  the  harbor,  and  she  was  soon  gliding  along,  out- 
side of  Grannam's  Noddle — her  hull  hidden  by  the  island 
— and  soon  she  came  out  from  behind  it. 

There  was  a  woman's  figure,  in  white,  apart  from  the 
dark  figures  of  the  sailors,  and  leaning  against  the  quar- 
ter-rail, on  the  lee-side ;  and  suddenly,  as  if  making  out 
*  The  fleet  of  fishing-punts. 


wm    I 


I'l 


Kl'h'' 

^f 

ft 

..i 

In 

lii 

ftSi 

It 

.52fi 


THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


I       !. 


the  two  ladies,  she  started,  and  made  a  gesture  once  or 
twice,  which  might  be  an  answer  to  Miss  Dare's  signal  of 
welcome. 

"There!  isn't  that  just  like  the  little  thing?"  asked 
Fanny,  at  the  same  time  turning  hurriedly  up  the  harbor. 
*'  She  isn't  sobbing  or  fainting,  though  her  heart's  as  full 
as  it  can  be  ;  but  slie's  too  modest  to  return  our  greeting  ! 
I'll  venture  to  say  she's  looking  the  other  way,  or  on  the 
deck.  She's  a  dear  girl ! — I  must  be  first  to  tell  her 
father  and  mother,  if  I  can  ;  shall  we  go  up  ?  " 

If  Lucy  was,  indeed,  too  bashful  to  believe  the  signal 
to  be  made  for  her,  or  that  she  was  recognized,  there  was 
some  one  else  on  board  who  was  less  timid.  Captain 
Nolesworth  gallantly  took  off  his  hat  and  bowed,  and 
waved  his  hat  about  his  head,  in  silent  triumph.  There 
was  a  busy  stir  on  board,  as  if  the  men  were  full  of  the 
importance  of  the  occasion  ;  and  on  land  as  well  as  on 
the  water,  a  sympathetic  movement  was  taking  place ;  the 
punts  were  coming  in,  at  their  utmost  speed,  dashing  the 
water  from  their  eager  bows  and  straining  oars  ;  and  men 
and  women  were  coming  out  of  Frank's  Cove,  and  over 
the  hill  from  Mad  Cove,  beyond,  and  out  of  every  little 
neighborhood.  Mrs.  Barre  and  Miss  Dare,  however, 
were  before  them  all ;  and  they  hurried  on,  to  keep  their 
advantage,  while  the  brig  went  her  way  by  water.  The 
Captain's  voice  could  be  heard  distinctly,  as  he  ordered  the 
men  to  "clew  up  the  foresail,"  and  then  to  "let  that 
cracky  *  bark."  In  obedience  to  the  last  order,  a  brass 
ten-pounder  stunned  the  air,  and  made  the  far-off  hills  to 
echo ;  and  on  came  the  brig,  the  smoke  rolling  off,  and 
breaking  up  to  leeward. 

Miss  Dare  reached  the  top  of  the  ridge  that  bounded 
*  A  "  cracky,"  in  Newfoundland,  is  a  little  dog. 


LUCY'S  HOME-COMING. 


527 


5  once  or 
3  signal  of 

?"  asked 
lie  harbor, 
rt's  as  full 
greeting  1 
or  on  the 
;o  tell  her 

the  signal 

there  was 

Captain 

lowed,  and 

»h.     There 

full  of  the 

well  as  on 

place;  the 

ashing  the 

;  and  men 
;,  and  over 
Bvery  little 
however, 

?eep  their 
ater.  The 
Drdered  the 
"let  that 
ler,  a  brass 

•off  hills  to 

ng  off,  and 

at  bounded 

og. 


Skipper  George's  little  meadow,  before  there  was  much 
stir  in  that  neighborhood,  and  while  the  oblique  course  of 
the  brig  had  carried  her  over  towards  Sandy-Harbor,  a 
half  mile  or  so  farther  off  than  when  opposite  Whitmon- 
duy  Hill. 

Mrs.  Barbury,  who  had  been,  apparently,  standing  on 
a  rock  a  little  back  from  the  edge  of  the  ridge,  came 
wildly  down,  as  the  young  lady  went  up,  staying  a  mo- 
ment to  ask,  "  Is  it  Lucy,  Miss  Dare  ?  "  and  saying  that 
"  he  knew  it  the  \e,Yy  first  gleam  he  saw  of  the  brig's  can- 
vas." She  then  ran  on,  up  the  harbor,  to  be  at  the  stage- 
head  before  the  vessel  got  there. 

Mi-.s  Dare  went,  hastily,  a  little  farther  towards  the 
old  planter's  house,  but  stopped  before  reaching  it,  and 
turned  back.  Who  can  tell  a  father's  heart,  that  has  not 
one  ?  She  could  see  Skipper  George  on  his  knees,  by 
the  bedside,  in  the  little  room.  He  had  stayed  at  home 
that  day,  for  some  reason  of  his  own  ;  and  Janie  by  him. 

With  another  tack  the  brig  stood  over  for  Mr.  Wer- 
ner's stage,  and  again  fired  a  gun.  The  whole  harbor, 
now%  was  alive  ;  and  from  every  quarter  people  were 
walking  and  running,  (little  ones  trying  to  keep  up  with 
their  mothers  and  elders,)  towards  Mr.  Worner's  premises. 

"  We'd  better  hold  back  a  little,  I  suppose,"  said  Miss 
Dare,  as  she  joined  Mrs.  Barre  again  ;  "  though  I  should 
like  to  see  her  when  she  first  touches  land,  and  hear  the 
first  word  she  speaks." 

Up  the  harbor  went  the  brig  and  the  boats,  by  water ; 
and  up  and  down  the  harbor  went  the  people  from  the 
different  directions,  toward  the  same  point, — Mr.  Worner's 
stage.  Mrs.  Barre's  chamber-window  commanded  a  view, 
over  Mr.  Naughton's  storehouse,  of  Messrs.  Worner, 
Grose  &>  Co.'s  premises,  which  were  half  a  quai-ter  of  a 


i': 


% 


mi 


r','     i 


i)  I 


n    1     , 1 


a  J!  h 


!:  I 


.'328 


THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


mile  beyond ;  and  the  two  ladies  stationed  themselves  at 
the  window. 

The  punts  were  getting  in  ;  the  brig  was  drawing  up, 
taking  off  sail  after  sail ;  the  people  were  hurrying,  and 
there  was  a  sound  of  many  voices.  The  ladies  did  not 
stay  long  at  the  vyindow  ;  but  they,  too,  followed  the  cur- 
rent of  life  up  to  the  place  where  the  brig  was  expected. 

"I  haven't  seen  Skipper  George  go  by,"  said  Miss 
Dare.     "  I  hope  it  won't  be  too  much  for  him." 

Tl  was  attempied  to  make  way  for  the  h»dics;  and  it 
would  have  been  do!ie, — though  slow ly  and  hnrdly, — but 
such  was  the  crowd  all  over  the  stage,  that  they  sought 
refuge  in  one  of  the  stores,  and  took  their  stand  at  a  win- 
dow in  the  loft.  Never  was  there  such  a  time  m  Peter- 
port  ;  never,  but  at  the  funeral  of  the  four  Barburys  had 
there  been  such  a  crowd  withii?  men's  memory.  The 
stage  was  covered  ;  the  neighboring  flakes  were  covered ; 
the  boats  floated  full ;  children  cried  to  be  lifted  up  ;  peo- 
ple stood  a-tiptoe  ;  eyes  were  straining ;  faces  were  flushed 
and  eager, — it  seemed  as  if  the  blood  would  scarcely  keep 
within  its  vessels.  Tlie  men  on  board  the  brig  went 
nimbly  about  their  work  in  perfect  silence ;  every  order 
came  distinctly  to  land.  All  the  lower  sails  were  out  of 
the  way ;  jib,  foretopmast-stay-sail,  foresail,  mainsail, 
spanker ;  but  there  was  no  womr.n  on  deck.  The  Captain 
calhxl  out, — 

"  We've  got  her,  Mrs.  Barbury,  all  safe  ! " 

"  Thank  God  !  "  cried  the  mother,  who  was  at  the  out- 
most verge  of  the  stage  ;  and,  before  the  wordii  had  gone 
from  lier,  there  went  up  a  minglvjd  shout  and  cry  from 
men,  women,  and  children.  The  brig  had  come  up  into  the 
wind,  and  again  the  ten-pounder  flashed  and  roared,  and 
the  smoke  rolled  away  aft.     Women  shook  hands  with  one 


■  ^;  ■ 


LUCY'S  HOME-COMING. 


529 


ilvcri  at 


ing  up, 
ng,  and 
did  not 
he  cur- 
cpected. 
id  Miss 


;  and  it 
ly,— but 
y  sought 
It  a  win- 
n  Peter- 
iryg  had 
•y.     The 
covered ; 
pp;  peo- 
e  flushed 
ely  keep 
12  went 
ry  order 
ire  out  of 
mainsail, 
Captain 


the  out- 
lad  gone 
I  or)  from 
into  the 
ired,  and 
I  with  one 


another  and  wept ;  brighl  tears  were  in  Miss  Dare's  beau- 
tiful eyes,  and  tears  run  down  Mrs.  BaiTe's  pale,  soft 
ch(!ek.  Tiien  Jesse  Hill's  bluff  voice  was  heard  (from 
the  water,  of  course)  : — 

"  I'll  take  a  line  *  ashore  for  *ee,  Cap'n  Noseward." 

"  Thank  'ee,  Mr.  liarbury,"  answered  the  captain ; 
"  I'd  best  bring  up  in  the  stream.  Somebody  bring  the 
father  and  mother  aboard  ;  will  ye  ?  " 

Down  went  the  anchor  with  a  splash,  and  rattling  of 
chain ;  and  the  brig's  voyage  was,  in  a  moment,  at  an 
end. 

Two  boats  were  most  active  and  conspicuous,  among 
the  many  that  floated  about  the  vessel,  and  the  two,  at 
the  captain's  word,  drew  near  the  stage.  In  one  Jesse 
Hill's  fur  cap  and  bright  hair  predominated,  astern,  and 
Isaac  Maffcn  held  the  chief  oar ;  the  other  was  occupied 
by  young  men,  and  was  steered  by  a  silent  young  man, 
that  was,  probably,  not  unobserved  this  day, — James 
Urston. 

The  latter  rather  held  back,  and  yielded  precedence  to 
Jesse ;  and  Jesse,  coming  up  to  the  stage,  and  having  in- 
quired and  called  for  his  Uncle  George,  without  success, 
took  in  the  mother,  and  made  all  speed  for  the  vessel's 
side.  Captain  Nolesworth  had  her  hoisted  in,  man-of- 
war  fashion,  and,  in  an  instant,  the  daughter  and  mother 
were  in  each  other's  arms.  The  oaptain,  by  way  of  occu- 
pying the  time,  called  out, — 

"  Now,  hojr,  we'll  change  work,  and  try  how  this  air 
taster,  after  being  on  sea  so  long.  Let's  have  three 
cheers  !  and  you.  Ghost,  set  the  pitch." 

The  biggest  man  among  the  crew  stood  forth,  sheep- 
ishly, pushed   forward   by   his    laughing    fellows ;    but, 

*  A  rope. 
84 


M 


r)3o 


THE  NEW   PKIEST. 


hh 


whether  lie  gave  the  j)ltch  or  not,  tliree  hearty  seamen*8 
clieers  were  given  by  the  crew ;  an  irregular,  prolonged 
cheering  came  from  the  land. 

After  a  short  time  allowed,  the  kindly  neighbors  began 
to  ask  abundant  questions,  across  the  water,  to  Jesse, 
who  kept  his  place  in  the  punt  at  the  brig's  side,  as  to 
whether  she  "  was  hearty,"  and  "  looked  as  she  used  to," 
and  so  forth ;  in  answer  to  which  Jesse  once  or  twice  re- 
peated that  he  had  not  seen  her,  and  they  must  be  patient 
a  little.  Meantime,  Jesse  wni  busy  holding  communica- 
tions with  the  occupants  of  several  punts  near  hira,  which 
set  off,  this  way  and  that,  like  adjutants  on  a  review  day. 
It  was  soon  understood  that  Skipper  George's  daughter 
was  to  be  escorted  home  with  a  public  demonstration. 
The  field  for  every  thing  of  that  sort,  among  our  fisher- 
men, is  the  water ;  and  so  there  was  a  general  bustle  to 
get  and  bring  into  service  whatever  boat  was  capable  of 
swimming. 

Skipper  George  was  understood  to  be  at  home ;  and  it 
was  also  understood  that  the  Parson  had  gone  down  to  him. 

Jeise  himself  left  his  post  and  hurried  over  to  Mrs. 
Barre  and  Miss  Dare,  to  ask  whether  "  the  ladies  'ould 
be  so  well-plased  to  give  the  people  the  honor  of  their 
company  in  a  bit  of  a  possession  that  was  going  to  be 
down  harbor.  Cap'n  ISIosewood,"  he  said,  "was  going  in 
'e's  boat,  and  so  was  Abram  Frank,  in  Mr.  Worner's  ;  and 
e'er  a  one  would  be  clear  proud  to  take  they."  Having 
gained  their  consent,  he  hurried  back,  and  in  a  minute  or 
two,  had  passed  through  the  crowd  of  small  craft,  and  was 
at  the  brig's  quarter  again.  James  Urston's  boat  was 
there,  and  his  drew  up  alongside  of  it. 

When  Lucy  appeared  at  the  vessel's  side,  the  welcome 
given  her  was  enthusiastic.     Jesse  regarded  liis  wonderful 


I '.  ■ 


seamen  s 
rolonged 


)rs  began 
to   Jesse, 
ide,  as  to 
used  to," 
twice  re- 
)e  patient 
tnmunica- 
im,  which 
view  day. 
daughter 
)nstration. 
lur  fisher- 
.  bustle  to 
capable  of 

le ;  and  it 
vvn  to  him. 
r  to  Mrs. 
adies  'ould 
>r  of  their 
)ing  to  be 
s  going  in 
•ner's ;  and 
Having 

minute  or 
ft,  and  was 

boat  was 

e  welcome 
wonderful 


LUCY'S  1 

[lOME-COMING. 

531 

cousin 

1  as  a 

being 

above 

liis 

understanding ; 

and 

cvery- 

body 

lield 

her 

in 

miK'li 

the 

same   estiniation;    and  she 

never 

lool^ed  more 

bright 

and 

iiandsotne  than 

now 

She 

I 


was  rather  stouter  than  she  had  ibrmerly  been  ;  her  vycs 
ghmeed,  and  iier  clieeks  glowed,  and  her  hhi^k  liair 
floated,  as  they  used,  and  a  pretty  little  straw  boimet, 
with  bright  red  about  it,  made  her  look  sweetly.  She 
glanced  down  at  the  two  boats,  and  over  all  the  glad 
faces  everywhere  and  smiled  and  blushed.  The  men  all 
had  their  hats  off,  and  the  women  waved  their  hands,  or 
handkerchiefs,  and  words  of  welcome  came  fj'om  every 
side.  No  one  could  have  gone  through  a  studied  part  so 
beautifully  as  she  went  through  hers ;  and  every  turn  of  her 
head  and  movement  of  her  body,  brought  forth  new  shouts 
from  her  excited  neighbors.  Her  eyes  came  back  over 
the  same  course  that  they  had  gone,  and  passed,  last,  over 
the  two  boats  just  below  her. 

Mrs.  Barbury  was  received  with  much  state  by  her 
nephew,  and  escorted  to  a  seat;  and  then  Lucy,  on  whom 
all  eyes  were  fixed,  was  hoisted  over  the  side,  and  lowered 
down  the  little  distance  from  the  rail  to  the  level  of  the 
punts.  Somehow,  a  slight  side-motion  was  given  to  the 
chair;  more  than  one  hand  was  reached  towards  her; 
she  gave  her  hand  and  set  her  feet,  without  looking ; — 
but  it  was  into  James  Urston's  boat  that  she  went. 

"  She's  mistook,"  said  Jesse,  to  whom  the  programme 
of  his  "  Possession  "  was  the  foremost  thing,  and  who  did 
not,  perhaps,  (like  many  other  ritualists,)  see  how  things 
would  go  on,  unless  according  to  the  programme. 

"No,  no,  Mr.  Barbury,"  said  Captain  Nolesworth, 
laughing,  "the  ladies  know  what  they're  about.  That 
must  be  the  young  priest  we  heard  of  It's  my  opinion 
she's  meant  to  take  her  passage  in  his  boat.'* 


i 


m 


r)32 


THE  NEW   PRIEST. 


IP  1,1: 


^■:;i;ii 


,Hl 


•](;'  ■; 


At  this,  thn  public,  wlio  are  f^onomlly  quick-witted  and 
quick-licurted  in  such  mattrrs,  (o(»k  it  up,  and  gave 
"three  cheers  for  young  Mr.  Urston." 

The  young  man  received  the  distinction  and  tlie  gratu- 
lation  in  moiiest  silence;  Lucy  bhislied  deeply;  and  Jesse 
reconciled  liimself  to  circumstances. 

"Where's  Mr.  Piper?"  cried  the  chief  manager  of  the 
"  possession."  A  voluntary  flourish,  on  the  fiddle,  an- 
swered the  question,  and  showed  that  the  worthy  Irish- 
man knew  what  faculty  made  his  company  most  valuable. 

Without  loss  of  time,  in  marshalling  the  array,  the 
several  boats  fell  in  ;  the  music,  under  Billy  Bow's  pilot- 
age, in  advance,  in  the  centre  column ;  Jesse  following, 
with  a  large  ensign  fastened  to  a  boat-hook,  and  supported 
by  two  men, — which  ensign  there  was  not  wind  enough 
to  spread ; — then   Lucy,  in   young  Urston's   boat ;   and 

then whoever  came  next,  in   a  long  row,  while  on 

each  side  was  a  parallel  line  of  punts,  keeping  even  way. 
The  fiddle  struck  up  the  National  Anthem,  and  continued 
to  fill  a  part  of  the  air  with  melody ;  the  oars  hurled  back 
the  water,  and  bravely  the  procession  swept  on,  not  far 
from  shore ;  muskets  now  and  then,  and  here  and  there, 
breaking  forth  into  joy.  The  water  gleamed  and  glanced, 
and  the  very  cliffs  seemed  glad, — taking  up  and  saying 
over  the  sounds  frorri  every  side. 

At  Marchants'  Cove,  an  unexpected  interruption  came. 
It  had  been  Jesse  Barbury's  plan  to  go  down  round  the 
island,  and  come  back  to  this  cove  again ;  but,  as  they 
reached  it,  Lucy  exclaimed  "  There's  Father ! "  and  the 
punt  that  bore  her,  as  instantly  as  if  it  were  moved  by  her 
mere  will,  was  urged  towards  the  land, — breaking  out  of 
the  j)rocession.  Soon  she  cried,  "  Oli !  little  Janie  !  " 
The  father  stood  upon  the  beach,  beneath  a  ilak(i,  gaz- 


itted  and 
iid   gave 

he  gratii- 
md  Jesse 

er  of  the 
ddle,  an- 
hy  Irish- 
valuable, 
rray,  the 
iw's  pilot- 
following, 
supported 
d  enough 
oat ;  and 
while  on 
iven  way. 
continued 
rled  back 
1,  not  far 
md  there, 
I  glanced, 
id  saying 

ion  came, 
round  the 
t,  as  they 
and  the 
sd  by  her 
ig  out  of 
mie!" 
lak(i,  gaz- 


LUCY'S   IIOME-COMINO. 


533 


ing,  with  fixed  and  steady  look,  upon  his  child.  She  rose, 
as  the  boat  drew  near,  and  he  walked  into  the  water,  to 
his  knees,  to  meet  her.  Several  of  tiie  young  men  turned 
awtiy,  as  the  brave  old  iisherman  o{)ened  his  arms,  and 
she  embraced  him  and  leaned  upon  his  neck.  lie  lifted 
her  up,  as  wiieu  she  was  a  ehihl.     Janie  gazed,  in  awo. 

"I'm  too  heavy  for  you,  lather,"  Lucy  said.j 

"Ah!  my  dear  maid,"  he  answered,  "ef 'ee  could  only 
know  how  light  'ee  make  mv  heart ! "  and  he  bore  her 
away  to  land,  as  if  she  had  been  an  infant;  and  then, 
holding  her  hand  in  his,  he  turned  to  his  neighbors,  and 
baring  his  head,  said, — 

"  I  tliank  'ee  kindly,  friends,  for  all  your  goodness : 
and  I  humbly  thank  my  IJest  Friend,  for  all  'E's  good- 
ness."    He  tiien  bowed  his  head  to  his  breast. 

What  may  have  prevented  the  people  generally  from 
noticing  Skipper  George,  until  his  child's  (piick  eye  dis- 
covered him,  and  her  hurried  words  proclaimed  him,  was 
the  approach  of  a  punt,  from  the  direction  of  Sandy 
Harbor,  which  now  came  up ;  (little  Janie  still  gazing.) 

"  Wall,  I  guess  ye  may's  well  hold  on,  Mr.  Kames, 
'thout  you  mean  to  run  somebody  down,"  said  one  of  the 
two  in  it  to  his  companion.  "  What's  to  pay,  Mr.  Hill  ?" 
(to  Jesse.)  "Lucy  c'me  home?  'S  that  her?  Ye  don't 
say  !  Wall  she's  kind  'o  left  ye,  I  guess,  hasn't  she  ?  b't 
we  c'n  go  on  'th  the  meetin'.  Tell  ye  what's  the  right 
thing :  go  to  work  'n'  organize,  'n'  pass  s'me  res'lutions,  'n 
'spur  o'  the  moment." 

As  Mr.  Bangs  spoke,  the  boats  had  gathered  round ; 
their  course  being  interrupted,  and  he  was  the  centre  of 
a  large  flotilla.  ' 

"  Sh'  didn't  b'come  a  Papist,  I  b'lieve  ?  'tain't  th'  fashion, 
jest  now,  't  seems." 


f; 


t  ^  i  I . 


534 


THE  NEW   PRIEST. 


iM 


i>     !: 


n  >  ( 


'',.  i 


"  Without  they  haves  a  miracle  to  convart  'em,  Mr. 
Banks,"  said  Billy  Bow. 

"  Wall,  the's  no  tellin'  'bout  mirycles,"  answered  Mr 
Bangs;  "  b't 's  I's  sayin',  I  guess  ye'd  better  give  Mrs. 
Barberry,  there,  her  choice,  whether  she'd  ruther  stay  t' 
the  proceedings,  or  go  right  home.  The's  no  'bjection, 
under  the  broad  canopy,  t'  havin'  ladies : — fact,  they're  'n 
addition." 

Notwithstanding  Mr.  Bangs's  intimation,  however,  Mrs. 
Barbury  had  no  wish  to  enjoy  that  particular  privilege  of 
her  sex,  in  being  an  addition  to  the  meeting,  and  Jesse 
prepared  to  turn  his  prow  to  tl  e  beach. 

"'S  goin'  t'  pr'pose  't  Mr.  Barberry,  ('r  Mr.  Hill,) 
there,  sh'd  take  the  chiJr  and  preside,"  said  Mr.  Bangs. 
"  Miglit  let  Mr.  Urston  take  Mrs.  Bar-berry,  now  his 
hand's  in,  'f  the's  no  'bjection  ;-  -or,  I  gue?s  we  better 
make  the  pr'ceedin's  short.  Loo}^  a'here ;  you  jest  take 
the  chair,  Mr.  Barberry,"  said  he,  aside  ;  then  to  the  mul- 
titude :  "  'F  it  be  yer  minds,  please  t'  signify  it ; — 'tis  a 
unanimous  vote  !  "  (not  an  individual  saying  or  doing  any 
thing  whatever  except  himself,) — "  There,  ye  saw  how 
I  did  it,"  said  he  again,  as  prompter,  to  Jesse ;  "  's  no 
matter  'bout  a  chair,  ye  know. — Look  a'here,  Mr.  Frank,'* 
he  continued,  to  Billy  Bow,  "  Guess  you'd  better  move 
first  res'lution." 

"  Which  w'y'll  he  move,  Mr.  Banks  ?  "  inquired  Jesse, 
anxious  to  dischargG  his  part. 

"  Oh  !  ain't  any  of  ye  used  to  it ;  wall,  shall  have  to 
move,  myself ;  you  say  you  second  me,  Mr.  Frank  ;  and 
then  you  ask  'em  'f  't's  their  minds,  Mr.  Hill.  Mr.  Chair- 
man, I  move "   (the  women  and  other  on-lookers 

were  very  much  entertained  and  astonished,)  "I  move 
you,  sir,  that '  We  cannot  repress  the  unspeakable  emotions 


MBWrfiiri"! » ■ 


LUCY'S  HOME-COMING. 


535 


id,  Mr. 


red  Mr 
ve  Mrs. 

r  stay  t' 
bjection, 
lev're  'n 

er,  Mrs. 
ilege  of 
id  Jesse 

r.  Hill,) 
'.  Bangs, 
now  his 
e  better 
jest  take 
the  mul- 
; — 'tis  a 
oing  any 
saw  how 
"  's  no 
Frank," 
er  move 

id  Jesse, 

have  to 
nk  ;  and 
r.  Chair- 
i-lookers 
I  move 
amotions 


with  which  we  view  this  inscrutable  dispensation.' 

That's  one  way  the'  have  o'  doiri'  it." 

While  these  lofty  and  appropriate  words  and  senti- 
ments were  addressed  to  him,  the  chairman  gazed  in  ad- 
miration at  the  utterer,  and  from  him  cast  glances,  to 
either  side,  at  the  audience,  of  whom  some  of  the  women 
were  a  good  deal  amused,  as  if  it  were  fun, 

"  Guess  we  m't  's  well  stop  there,  f '  the  present,"  said 
the  mover  :  "  Wunt  ye  jest  try  that,  first  ?  " 

Jesse  scratched  his  head,  in  the  sight  of  all  the  people, 
and  Mr.  Bangs  began  prompting  him,  in  a  lower  voice, 
distinctly  audible  everywhere.  The  chairman,  also,  began 
to  repeat  after  him,  as  follows  : —  » 

"  Mr.   Banks  says  '  'e  can't  express  his  unspeakable 


motions 


ind  then  broke. 


"  Do  'ee  mean  to  say  we're  clear  proud,  Mr.  Banks  ?  " 
asked  he.  "  Ef  'ce  do,  we'll  s'y  so  ;  "  and,  turning  to  the 
public,  said :  ''  Ef  we're  glad  over  she  coming  back, 
please  to  show  it.     Hurray !  " 

"  Hurray  ! "  shouted  the  people,  male  and  female. 

"  It  is  an  annual  vote  !  "  said  the  chairman.  "  There, 
Mr.  Banks ! " 

The  meeting  di  -persed,  and  left  the  water  to  the  gentle 
wind  and  sunshine ;  and  a  sweet  sight  was  seen  on  land ; 
how  Lucy  went  to  meet  and  how  she  met  her  pastor  : 
but  would  not  let  go  her  father's  hand  ;  then  how  prettily 
she  looked,  as  Mrs.  Barre  and  Miss  Dare  welcomed  and 
kissed  her;  and  then  how  prettily  she  lingered  to  meet 
and  greet  her  neighbors,  but  pretty  as  anything  was  her 
way  with  Janie,  who  held  her  sister's  gown,  and  asked,  — 

"  Where'bouts  you  come  from  ?  You  go'n  to  stay  in 
our  house?'' 


:)'M 


TIIK   NKW    I'KIKST. 


CHAPTER   LVII. 


FATHER    DE     BUIe's     LAST     INTEKVIEW    WITH     FATHER 

TERENCE. 

)ONG  years  had  passed  to  Mrs.  Barre :  but,  per- 
^'  haps,  these  weeks  Avere  longer ;  for  waiting  hope 
is  not  the  same  as  waiting  expectation.  Certainly, 
she  seemed  to  be  wasting  under  it ;  though  she  threw  her- 
self into  the  joy  of  th(;  liarbor  at  Lucy's  coming  back. 

October  went  by,  and  November  came  and  was  going 
by.  The  season  had  been  a  fine,  open,  bright  one  ;  and 
gome  young  jieoph^  from  Labrador,  had  seen,  as  they 
said,  "the  color  of  their  own  country"  for  the  first  time  in 
their  lives,  to  their  remembrance  ;  somi^  fhu'ries  of  snow 
came  about  the  first  of  November,  and  since,  but  not 
much  cold. 

Another  person  was  waiting  and  looking  out, — perhaps 
with  a  father's  fondness,  (but  that  is  not  a  wife's,)  for  Mr. 
De  Brie's  return :  it  was  Father  Terence. 

He  had  left  a  most  urgcMit  message,  through  a  Boman 
Catholic  merchant  of  New  Harbor,  desiring  ]\[r.  De  Brie 
to  wait,  just  a  few  hours,  at  that  place,  until  Father  Ter- 
ence could  see  him  ;  and  had  also  j)rovided  (to  the  as- 
tonishment of  the  fishermen,)  for  news  of  the  vessel  to  be 
brought  him  from  the  fishing-ground  if  she  passed  by  day- 
bght.  On  Saturday,  the  twenty  ninlh  <lay  o!  November, 
early  in  the  morning,  the  news  came  into  Bay-Harbor, 


Ash 


A    LAST    INTKUVIKW. 


537 


FATHER 


but,  per- 
il o;  liope 
lertainly, 
rcw  lier- 
back. 
as  goinj:^ 
3ne;  aiul 
as  thoy 
st  time  in 
of  snow 
but  not 

— ])erhaps 
)  lor  Ur. 

a  Komaii 
Do  Uric 
It  her  Ter- 
o  the  as- 
ssel  to  be 
(I  by  (hiy- 
^^oveniber, 
y -Harbor, 


that  Mr.  Oldliniuc's  schooner  was  slandiup;  across  Con- 
ception lo  Triiiily  l>My. 

It  Iiad  been  chilly,  rainy  wcjither,  soakinijj  every  thinfr, 
for  two  (Inys  ;  !in<l  this  t\;\y  wms  a  dull,  <l!irk  one,  covered 
with  lenden  clouds:  very  little  wind  blowin;:;. 

Father  Terence  start<'d  ininicdiat<dy  to  cross  the  l>ar- 
reiis;  havin^ij  bel'oi'e  enuj.'i^cd  a  stout  horse,  and  tMkin;» 
two  "guides  ;  one  of  whom  (Mike  Ileunni,  the  l*et<'rporl 
landlord.)  was  also  mounted.  INIr.  Duir^Mn  liad  set  out 
early,  on  foot,  and  gained  a  couple  of  miles,  or  so,  upon 
the  riders. 

Tla;  good  Priest,  as  he  had  Ixmmi  urgent  in  his  jirepar- 
ations,  so  was  eager  on  the  way.  The  smooth  road  he 
got  over  at  a  good  rate,  and  entered,  manfully,  upon  the 
broken  hohbly  path  among  tlu^  ston(^s  and  stunte(l  tirs,  and 
over  the  moss  and  morasses,  (ireat  mo|)s  of  thickly- 
matted  cver^re<'n  l)oii<i;hs  swal)l"'d  against  liim,  and  some- 
times struck  him  a  seven;  blow,  as  his  great  beast,  siu'^ed 
against  them,  and  then  let  th«'m  slip  from  his  shoulder. 
Down  })reci|)itous  leaps,  and,  in  lik(!  manner,  up  to  the 
top  of  low  rocks;  then  straining  and  rolling  from  side  to 
side,  as  the  beast  drew  oiw^  hoof  after  another  out  of  a 
little  patch  of  meadow,  sofj:;;j:;y  with  the  I'ain,  Father  Ter- 
ence made;  his  way,  silently  occupied  with  his  thouj»;hts  ; 
exce[)t  when,  0(!casionally,  he  became  anxious  lest  his  horse 
should  hurt  himsidf  in  the  rough  and  miry  path.  New- 
foundland horses  are  used  to  ways  of  that  sort ;  and  the 
one  that  he  now  nxh',  though  not  familiar  with  the  l>ar- 
rens,  got  on  very  fairly.  Between  the  ponds,  however, 
there  are  wider  meadows ;  and  Fatlusr  Tenmce  entering, 
fearless,  upon  the  first  of  these,  found  his  horse,  after  a 
few  steps  and  a  heavy  jum[),  or  two,  sinking  down  to  the 
Baddle-girths.     His  mounted  guide,  (a  small  man,  on  a 


1. 


i    M 


I        i 


538 


THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


:kt-:  V 


i''.i 


|V/ll      I 


"i  : 


nimble  little  pony,)  was  going  over  it  like  a  duck  or  sea- 

gull. 

The  Priest  dismounted  instantly,  and  summoned  liis 
two  attendants  to  his  aid. 

"  I  think  he's  gettin'  someway  tired,"  said  he,  "  his  feet's 
that  heavy." 

"  The  ground's  very  saft.  Father  Tirence,  and  the  harse 
is  too  big  an*  solid  for  it,"  said  Mike  Henran,  of  Peter- 
port,  seizing  the  bridle  and  lifting  the  foundering  horse's 
head.  This  operation  seemed  like  working  him  on  a 
pivot ;  for,  as  his  head  came  up,  his  haunches  went  slowly 
down.  Mr.  Duggan  laid  hold  of  his  tail,  and  lifted. 
The  worthy  Priest  anxiously  surveyed  the  operation. 

To  Henran's  criticism  upon  the  qualities  of  his  bor- 
rowed steed,  he  assented ;  saying,  "  Indeed  he's  not  that 
light  and  easy  goin'  Pishgrew  was." 

He  looked  on  again. 

"  I  think  ye'U  never  be  able  to  carry  him,"  added 

Father  Terence,  whose  experience  with  quadrupeds  had 
been  both  slight  and  short. 

The  men  knew  what  they  were  doing.  "  I  thought  Fd 
start  um  aff  this  saft  place,"  said  ^lenran,  "  the  way  he 
could  rest,  a  bit ;  and  then  we'd  try  and  have  him  out. 
Pull  um  over,  on  his  side,  then,  you.  Dug' n ! "  and  he 
held  the  poor  beast's  nose  down,  to  prevent  his  plunging, 
and  the  two  men  together  got  him  partly  on  his  side,  and 
then  Duggan  took  the  saddle  off  from  him. 

"  But  if  the  body  of  him  goes  in,"  suggested  the  Priesi, 
as  he  saw  their  manoeuvre,  "  sure  it'll  be  harder,  again, 
getting  it  out,  towards  having  his  legs,  only,  in  it ; "  for 
the  Father  saw,  at  a  glance,  that  four  slender  separate  legs, 
each  having  special  muscles  of  its  own,  and  having  flex- 
ible joints,  too,  could  be  more  easily  extracted  from  the 


iimsukimtutiitm^mMmmimaumt^r*^ 


ek  or  sea- 

loned  Ilia 

'  his  feet's 

[  the  harse 
of  Peter- 
nor  horse's 
him  on  a 
ent  slowly 
md  lifted, 
peration. 
)f  his  bor- 
I's  not  that 


im,"  added 
upeds  had 

thought  rd 
the  way  he 

I  him  out. 

1 "  and  he 
s  plunging, 
is  side,  and 

the  Priest, 
•der,  again, 
in  it;"  for 


parate  legs, 
aving  flex- 
i  from  the 


A   LAST   INTERVIEW. 


539 


slough,  than  a  huge,  round  carcass,  clumsy  and  heavy, 
and  without  joints, — if  it  should  once  happen  to  get  in, 
and  under  tlie  mud. 

"  But  his  body's  too  big,  Father  Terence,"  said  Hen- 
ran,  who  was  no  new  hand  at  this  sort  of  thing ;  "  do  ye 
see  the  holes  iv  his  legs  isn't  wide  enough  to  take  it 
in." 

*'  Do  you  mean  to  leave  him,  then  ? "  inquired  the 
Priest.  "  I'm  not  afraid  of  him  running  away ;  but  I 
think  it's  a  cold  place  for  him.     I  think  he's  fast,  there." 

"  Faith,  then,  savin  yer  reverence's  presence.  Father 
Tirence,  I'm  thinking  it's  a  fast  he'd  niver  break."  said 
Duggan,  who  had  an  Irish  readiness  at  a  pun.  "  We'll 
start  um  up  a  bit,  after  a  little,  and  try  can  we  turn  um 
round,  th'other  way." 

"  But  liow  will  he  get  on,  with  his  hind  legs  better  than 
his  fore  ones  ? "  inquired  the  good  Father  again,  very 
naturally  wondering  what  advantage  there  could  be  in 
trying  the  horse  backwards. 

"  We'll  have  to  get  um  out  iv  it,  ahltogether,"  said 
Henran,  "  and  il's  the  shortest  way  back." 

"  But  won't  we  be  able  to  go  over  ? "  asked  Father 
Terence  anxiously,  for  he  was  eager  to  be  at  the  end  of 
his  journey. 

"  Dug'n'll  be  to  take  um  round.  Father  Terence ;  and 
if  ye're  hurried,  I'm  thinkin'  we'd  best  lave  um  toDug'n, 
ahltogether,  for  it'll  be  the  same  wid  every  saft  place  we 
come  to.  The  wind's  coming  round  cold ;  but  it'll  only 
make  it  the  worse  for  him  breakin'  through,  for  it'll  cut 
up  his  legs  and  hurt  um  badly.  'Twill  be  hard  enough, 
in  three  or  four  hours  from  this,  that  ye  might  take  all 
the  horses  that  ever  was  over,  an'  they'd  niver  lay  a 
mark  an  it." 


'!  ni    ) 


^il 


I 


540 


THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


1  ( 


M'  I''' 


'  .11 


It  was  slow  and  hard  work  getting  the  horse  out. 
They  edged  liini  round,  after  he  liad  rested,  and  then 
lifting  him  at  botli  ends,  urged  liiin  until,  with  furious 
struggUng, — lying  down  and  resting  now  and  then, — he 
got,  by  little  and  little,  out  to  the  firm  ground,  trembling 
at  first  all  over,  and  scarce  able  to  stand. 

Father  Terence  adopted  the  advice,  and,  at  the  same 
time,  declined  Henran's  offer  of  his  own  beast ;  being,  as  he 
thought,  too  big  for  him  to  carry,  and  liis  late  experience 
having,  perhaps,  made  him  loth  to  take  the  charge  of  such 
a  thing.  So  they  budged  on  foot:  licnran  leading  his 
horse,  an  arrangement  which  was  not  the  least  comfortable 
that  they  could  make ;  for  the  wind  began  to  come  very 
bitterly  cold,  and  the  exercise  kept  their  blood  from  being 
chilled.  The  little  trees,  and  bushes,  and  moss,  grew  dry 
very  fast  in  the  cold  wind,  and  gave  them  liitle  trouble; 
but  the  walk  is  a  long  one,  and  the  good  Priest  was 
sorely  fagged  out  by  the  time  he  trudged  into  New- 
Harbor.  It  is  a  hard  enough  journey  now ;  it  was  a 
worse  way,  years  ago. 

The  schooner  was  beating  up  the  bay  against  the  wind 
that  had  so  lately  come  round,  and  begun  to  make  itself 
felt ;  and  Father  T(irence  seemed  to  lose  all  feeling  of 
fatigue,  and  was  out  watching  more  eagerly  than  the 
merchant  himself,  "  Qui  vldit  mare  turgidum,  et  Infames 
scopnios,  Acroceraunea"  *  who  knew  all  the  danger  that 
might  come  with  a  heavy  blow,  if  the  weather  should  turn 
out  thick. 

The  weather  cleared  off  fairly,  growing  colder  all  the 
while.  The  schooner  came  into  the  harbor  (which  is  on 
the  west,  popularly  called  the  south-^hore  of  Trinity  Bay) 
finely,  early  in  the  afternoon  ;  and  was  made  safely  '  fast ' 

*  HoR.  0.  I.  3.  19,  20.    Who  has  seen  the  sea  swelling,  and  (Rocks 
of  ill  name)  tlie  Acroceraunia. 


A  LAST   INTERVIEW. 


541 


at  her  stage.  The  first  person  that  jumped  ashore  was 
Mr.  De  Brie :  grave-looking,  bearing  marks  of  the  suffer- 
ing and  struggles  that  he  had  gone  through ;  but  strong 
and  quick,  and  shaking  himself  to  feel  free  from  the  irk- 
some constraint  of  the  little  vessel.  Father  Terence 
withdrew  out  of  sight  a  few  moments  before  the  vessel 
got  in. 

"  Now  I  must  get  a  guide  straight  over  to  Castle-Bay," 
said  JMr.  De  Brie,  after  a  cordial  greeting  to  the  merchant ; 
**  for  I  must  be  there  at  church  to-morrow,  God  willing." 

"  There's  a  man  just  starting,"  said  Mr.  Oldhame ;  '•  for 
Castle-Bay,  too ;  but  Father  O'Toole  is  waiting  to  see 
you ;  and  has  been  on  the  look-out  for  you  for  an  hour 
and  more.     He  came  across  on  purpose,  I  think." 

A  shade  of  regret  passed  over  Mr.  De  Brie's  face  ;  and 
he  turned  a  glance  of  longing  and  disappointment  toward 
the  woods  and  Barrens  that  lay  between  him  and  the 
end  of  a  long  separation,  and  wretcliedness,  and  wrong. 
He  said,  "  Perhaps  he'd  take  this  over  for  me,  and 
leave  it  at  the  schoolmaster's ;  I'll  follow  as  soon  as  I 
may."  He  took  a  thick  letter  from  his  pocket,  as  he 
spoke,  and  tearing  it  open,  wrote  a  few  words  with  his 
pencil  inside,  and  handed  it  to  Mr.  Oldhame,  who  prom- 
ised to  seal  and  send  it.  His  eyes  then  turned  for  an 
instant  upward  ;  and  then  he  asked  where  Father  Terence 
was,  and  (Mr.  Oldhame  not  being  able  to  say)  sought  the 
worthy  old  gentleman  in  the  merchant's  house. 

Father  Terence's  feelinjz:  was  so  ";re;\t  at  the  first  mo- 
ment  of  meeting  as  to  expFain  his  liaving  withdrawn,  that 
he  might  have  the  interview  in  private  and  unobserved. 
Mr.  De  Brie,  also,  was  very  much  affected.  The  old 
Priest  took  the  younger  man's  hand  in  both  his  own,  and 
looked  upon  him  fatherly,  while  his  words  sought  vainly 
for  utterance. 


IIB.P. 


1 1 


i. . 


m     ii 


,:•'■     i 


f 


542 


THE  irEVV  rniEST. 


'!)}h 


1  i' 


"  Y'arc  welcome  home  anjain ! "  he  said,  when  he  re- 
covered himself,  "  Y'are  welcome  home !  Come  home 
altogether,  now ! "  and  as  he  said  these  words  in  a  tender, 
pleading  tone  of  voice,  he  gently  drew  the  hand  he  held, 
as  if  in  illustration. 

"Ah  !  Father  Terence,"  said  Mr.  Do  Brie,  "thank  you, 
as  I  always  shall  tliank  you,  for  the  kindness  I  have  always 
had  from  you  !  Thank  you  ;  but  I  hav^  found  my  home 
at  last.     I  am  at  home  once  r  <  re." 

The  old  Priest  waL,  evidci^;';  i<;<iri3d.  He  still  held 
the  hand,  and  drew  Mr.  De  I  j-ie  i'^  a  ciitir  himself  insist- 
ing upon  standing. 

"  He's  away  now,"  he  continued,  "  an'  what's  to  hinder 
you  coming  back  ?  'Twould  have  been  a  good  job  if  he'd 
never  been  in  it  at  all." 

"  You  mean  Mr.  Crampton,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  just  Crampton ;  he's  off  with  himself  for 
good." 

"Ah  !  but  Father  Terence,  it  matters  nothing  to  me 
whether  he  com.es  or  goes,"  answered  Mr.  De  Brie. 

Father  Terence  hesitafid ;  but  soon  said  urgently, — 

"  But  don't  speak  till  ye'ii  hear  what  I  say.  I'm  well 
aware  of  the  provocation  ye  had  off  him ;  and,  indeed, 
that's  not  the  worst  of  him ; — I  wish  it  was.  Sister 
Frances,  the  poor,  unhappy  creature,  has  come  back ;  I 
suppose  ye  heard.  We  won't  talk  about  that.  God  have 
mercy  on  us ! — But  ye'll  be  shot  of  him  now,  and  can 
just  take  yer  time  quite  and  easy  with  the  old  man  that 
won't  quarrel  with  ye."  * 

"  If  you'll  let  me  say  a  word  to  that.  Father  Terence  ; — 
love  for  you  would  have  drawn  me  more  than  dislike  of 
him  would  have  driven  me  away.  It  was  no  personal 
question  with  me,  as  I  always  said.     If  \te  had  been  like 


A  LAST  INTERVIEW. 


543 


}n  lie  re- 

rne   home 

a  tender, 

J  he  held, 

liank  you, 
ve  always 
my  home 

still  held 
5elf  insist- 
to  hinder 
job  if  he'd 


mself   for 

ing  to  me 
5rie. 
ently, — 

I'm  well 
id,  indeed, 
5.  Sister 
e  back ;  I 
God  have 
V,  and  can 

man  that 

erence ; — 

dislike  of 

personal 

been  like 


you,  or  if  he  had  been  like  an  angel,  it  would  have  made 
no  difference :  nor,  on  tlie  other  hand,  if  you  had  been 
like  him." 

INIr.  Dc  '  .'ie  spoke  under  retraiut.  The  old  Priest 
looked  in  liis  vUce,  while  he  spoke,  and  listened.  .pi)arently ; 
but  seemed  lot  to  hear,  as  if  he  were  occuf)ied  with  liis 
ov,n  thougl'.Ls.  Looking  still  tenderly  m  his  face,  he  pres- 
euily  spoke  in  a  soothing  voice  :  — 

''  Your  mind's  got  disturbed  and  troubled  with  thoughts, 
and  ye  want  to  rest.  Come  and  help  me,  then,  for  a 
little,  and  we'll  bring  you  round,  with  the  help  of  God. 
Dunne  '11  be  Jiere  for  the  morrow,  in  case  of  me  being 
away." 

"  No,  Father,"  answered  the  otlier,  still  speaking  con- 
strainedly, "  I  can't  do  that  work  again. — I  don't  know 
that,  to  God,  my  life's  work  may  not  be  finished,  in  what 
I  have  ju'  ;  done." 

"  Come  and  rest,  then,  and  let  your  mind  settle  ;  and 
I'll  give  you  the  best  rooms  in  tiie  place.  You  should 
have  his,  only  it  wouldn't  be  that  pleasant ;  but  the  big 
room  up  stairs,  and  the  one  I  called  my  library,  you 
know  ;  and  you  shall  take  your  own  way,  just." 

As  he  mentioned  the  "  library,"  ho  forced  a  smile  into 
the  midst  of  the  sadness  of  his  face  ;  but  did  not  persist  in 
the  effort  it  cost  him.  His  honest  features  took  again 
their  look  of  affectionate  anxiety  and  distress. 

"  Ye're  doubtful  and  troubled  ;  and  ye  shall  do  nothing 
at  all  but  just  rest." 

"  The  doubts  are  gone,  and  the  struggle  is  over.  Father 
Terence,  forever." 

"Ah !  That's  good,  then  ;  ye  en  i  take  it  coolly.  Ye 
shall  have  your  own  time,  and  nobody'll  stir  ye. — That's 
good,"  said  the  kind-hearted  old  man. 


fl 


544 


THE  Nr.W   PRIEST. 


N  ■  1 


m 


"I  trust  I  shall  never  ii'l  in  the  respect  and  gratitude 
I  have  always  felt  for  you,  Father  Terence,  and  owe 
you,"  answered  iMr.  De  Brie,  speaking  as  if  the  word.s 
were  not  what  he  had  in  his  mind  to  say  ;  but  as  if  he 
were  loth  to  come  to  the  point. 

"  Why  would  ye,  then  ?  Indeed  ye  never  did ;  an* 
we'll  get  on  better,  now,  than  we  did,"  said  the  old  Priest ; 
but  with  a  hesitation  as  if  he,  too,  felt  that  something  was 
behind. 

"  My  dear  Father  Terence," said  Mr.  De  Brie,  and 

paused. 

Father  Terence  hastened  to  interrupt  him. 

"  Y'are  tired ;  an'  how  could  ye  help  it,  indeed,  an'  you 
just  off  the  water  ?  Let's  see  for  a  bit  to  eat,  beyond, 
at  Hickson's,"  said  he ;  and  then,  recalling  in  a  moment 
the  mutual  obligations  of  hospitality,  which  none  knew 
better  than  he,  with  his  Irish  heart,  he  said  "  No ;  but  we 
won't  be  that  rude  to  Mr.  Oldhame  here,  that  we'd  go  out 
of  his  house  for  something  to  eat.  Ye'll  be  the  better  of 
it;  an' I'll  tell  him." 

But  there  Avas  evidently  to  be  an  explanation,  and 
Father  Terence  doubtless  saw  it.  Mr.  De  Brie  rose  to 
his  feet,  saying, — 

"  You  must  not  make  me  sit,  my  good  Father,  while  you 
stand.  I  fear  I  shall  give  you  pain  by  wdiat  I  am  going 
to  say ;  but  I  am  sure  you  would  rather  know  the  exact 
truth : — I  have  made  open  profession  of  my  faith  in  tL.  - 
presence  of  the  English  bishop  at  Halifax." 

"  And  have  ye  left  the  old  Church,  then  ? "  asked 
Father  Terence,  very  sadly ;  not  casting  off  but  letting 
go  the  hand  that  he  had  been  holding  from  the  first. 
"  Ye  can't  have  done  it !  "  and,  as  he  spoke,  he  held  his 
hands  together,  upward. 


A  LAST   INTEUVIiaV. 


545 


atitude 

id  owe 

words 

s  if  he 

id:  an' 
Priest ; 
ng  was 

rie,  and 


an  you 
beyond, 
moment 
le  knew 
;  but  we 
d  go  out 
Btter  of 

on,  and 
rose  to 

hile  you 
n  going 
le  exact 
in  tL 

asked 
letting 

he  first. 

held  hig 


"Ah!  Father,  the  Church  that  bxs  not  only  the  old 
priesthood,  but  the  old  faith,  and  the  old  worship,  and  the 
old  ways,  is  the  old  Cliuroh  ; — but  I  don't  want  to  .xpcak 
of  that ;  I  only  want  to  say  that  it  is  done,  Father 
Terenv.  -. !  Doubt  and  delay  ani  ended  ;  and  my  solemn, 
jiublic  ai  t  has  been  made. — 1  am  in  the  Old  Way,  forever- 
more,  until  after  tlie  Day  of  Judgment."  In  his  turn, 
IMr.  D«i  Brie  gently  took  Father  Terence 's  hands  in  his 
own ;  and  the  old  m;ui  let  tliijrn  be  held  ;  but  sat  down  in 
the  chair,  into  v»hi'.'h  he  had  before  urged  his  companion. 
He  shook  his  head,  sadly,  and  tlien  fixed  his  look  upon 
the  oth(;r's  face,  and  ke{)t  it  there,  so  long,  and  with  such 
an  expression  of  disa{)pointment  and  bereavement,  that  it 
seemed  to  go  to  the  yoiuiger  man's  heart,  for  the  tears 
came  to  his  nyaA. 

The  old  Priest  drew  away  one  hand,  and  smoothed  his 
decent  locks  behind  ;  and  presently  drew  the  other  slowly 
away,  also,  and  laid  one  on  each  knee.  He  looked,  now, 
neither  at  his  companion  nor  any  thing  ;  but  his  honest, 
homely  features  worked  with  the  feelings  of  disappoint- 
ment and  hopelessness  which  he  strove  to  repress,  but  the 
witness  of  which  he  did  not,  or  could  not  hide.  Then  he 
drew  up  toward  the  fire. 

"  It's  no  use  me  saying  more  ! "  he  said.  "  I  didn't 
think  ye'd  have  done  it !  I  didn't  think  it ! — Isn't  it 
growing  colder  ?     I  think  it  is." 

In  spite  of  these  last  words,  which  implied  that  the  sad 
business  which  had  brought  him  over,  and  was  so  near  his 
heart  was  nov/  abandoned,  his  face  still  showed  that  his 
heart,  had  not  at  all  got  rid  of  it. 

"  It  has  grown  winter,  out  of  doors,  but  you  won't  grow 
colder,  Father  Terence.  You  don't  believe  one  like  me  to 
be  a  child  of  the  Devil ;  or  think  that  he  can't  be  saved." 


or: 


il'il 


1 


546 


TIIK  NEW   rUIKST. 


W.    '    ! 


"  I  don't  say  for  tlwit,"  said  the  old  Priost,  who,  wlicther 
he  assert (3(1  it  or  not,  had  never,  in  his  liCe,  been  any  thing 
but  liberal  and  charitable;  "  but  to  leave  being  a  priest, 
when  ye  were  consecrated  and  set  apart  to  it!" 

— "  I5ut  I  couldn't  keep  on  with  it,  when  my  faith  in 
that  church  was  gone,"  said  tlu;  other,  gently. 

'•  I  suppose  not,"  said  Fatlier  Terence,  rising  and  going 
to  the  window,  his  eyes  fairly  wetted  with  tfiars. 

"  I  do  not  expect  to  be  again  intrusted  with  a  priest's 
work,"  said  his  companion  ;  "  nor  do  I  wish  it.  I  am 
satisfied  to  work  out  my  salvation  as  a  private?  man,  since 
God  so  wills  it.  For  the  highest  and  happiest  work  that 
man  can  do  on  earth,  I  am  not  fit ;  I  have  shown  it." 

It  was  time  to  break  uj)  the  interview,  which  could  not 
grow  less  painful  by  being  prolonged  ;  but  Mv,  De  Brie 
stood  still,  and  waited  for  Father  Terence's  time.  The 
old  gentl(»man  stood  before  the  window  for  a  good  while, 
and  moved  uneasily,  from  time  to  time,  as  if  engaged  with 
his  own  feelings. 

"  But  must  ye  go  ou^  altogether  ? "  he  asked,  at 
length. 

"  I  couldn't  help  it.     I  cannot  wish  it  otherwise." 

Father  Terence  turned  round. 

"  Well,  then,  1  believe  ye've  acted  honestly,"  said  he, 
again  putting  out  his  hand,  which  his  companion  came 
forward  and  grasped,  heartily,  and  with  much  feetin^j. 
"  May  ye  never  be  the  worse  of  it ! — Stay  ! "  said  he, 
correcting  himself;  "what's  to  hinder  me  saying  'God 
guide  ye  ! '  anny  way  ?  " — He  hesitated,  and  then  said, 
"  and  bless  you,  and  bring  ye  right !  " 

Mr.  De  Brie  put  the  big,  kind  hand,  that  he  held,  to  his 
lips,  and  kissed  it ;  and  then  opened  the  door,  and  they 
joined  Mr.  Oldhnme. 


nf :  <irj 


A   LAST   INTEUVIEW. 


ry\7 


whether 
r»y  thing 
a  priest, 

'  faith  in 

nd  goinjr 

a  priest's 
1  am 
lan,  sinee 
vork  that 
1  it. 

could  not 
De  Brie 
tie.  The 
)0(1  while, 
aged  with 


The  aftfU'noon  had  hern  wearing  away  ;  the  wind  was 
hlowing  cold,  and  heavy  clouds  were  drifting  in  the  sky. 

"  The  !iian  tliat  tooi<  tli(!  little  parcel  for  nic,  must 
ho  [)rct(y  well  over,  hy  this  time,  prohahly,"  said  Mr. 
Do  Uric  to  the  merchant,  exerting  himself  to  speak 
ciieerfully. 

"  Yes,  I  think  he's  near  Castle-Bay,  sir ;  and  I'm  glad 
of  it ;  for  we're  likely  to  have  sprawls  of  snow,  before 
long,  I  think," 

"  There's  no  danger  in  the  woods  ?  " 

"  Not  so  much  ;  but  on  the  Barrens  it  isn't  safe  even 
for  an  old  hand." 

Father  Terence  did  his  best  to  be  in  good  spirits,  that 
evening,  having  accepted  the  merchant's  invitation  to 
stay ;  but  he  was  not  cheerful,  after  all.  Mr.  De  Brie 
was  silent,  and  went  often  to  the  window  or  the  door,  and 
looked  I'orth  upon  the  night.  Early,  he  and  the  rest 
bade  each  other  "Good  iiiiilit!" 


I»i 


asked,  at 


ise." 

said  he, 
lion  came 
1  feciiP^. 
said  he, 
'God 
hen  said, 


ring 


icld,  to  his 
and  they 


11 


iAS 


THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


"    ,    '1 


CHAPTER  LVIII. 


FATHER   DE    BRIE    IS    WAITED    FOR,   AND    SOUGHT. 


"A 


T.  ANDREW'S  Day  and  Advent  Sunday  came 
together,  that  year,  and  found  the  earth  all  white 
with  snow,  six  or  eight  inches  deep,  fallen  in  the 
night.  It  was  falling  in  the  early  day,  but  none  fell 
for  two  hours  before  church-time.  Rough  storm-clouds 
possessed  the  sky  ;  the  sea  looked  dark  and  cold. 
The  wind  blew  steadily,  (not  very  sharply,)  from  the 
north. 

The  flag  was  at  half-mast,  (it  being  within  half  an  hour 
of  service-time,)  and  Mr.  Wellon  was  just  going  out  of  his 
door  when,  plodding  along,  well-wrapped  in  shawls,  and 
with  her  feet  cased,  over  her  shoes,  in  stockings,  Miss 
Dare  appeared,  coming  up  to  his  house. 

"  News  !  and  good  news  ! "  exclaimed  she,  when  the 
clergyman  had  got  ne:^,r  her.  "Mr.  De  Brie,  —  or  Do 
Brie-Barre, — is  to  be  at  Church,  to-day  ;  he's  just  home, 
and  is  to  take  the  Communion,  for  the  first  time,  with  his 
wife.     She  wants  thanks  given  for  a  safe  return,  if  you'll 


be  go^  i  enough  to  remember  it.' 

began 


bright   tears 


A   bright   smile    began    the    sentence  , 
ended  it. 

"  Thank  God,  indeed  I  will !  "  said  the  Minister. 
She  bowed  and  turned  back  upon  her  steps,  without 


FATHER  DE  BRIE  IS  WAITED  FOR,  AND  SOUGHT.    549 


fUGHT. 

iay  came 
all  white 
len  in  the 
none  fell 
rm-clouds 
and  cold, 
from  the 

If  an  hour 
out  of  his 

lawls,  and 
ngs,  Miss 

when  the 
—  or  De 
ust  home, 
with  his 
I,  if  you'll 


ght  tears 


ister. 

s,  without 


another  word.  ]Mr.  Wellon,  too,  instead  of  going  on,  first 
went  back,  for  a  few  minutes,  into  his  house. 

He  was  absent-minded,  that  day,  in  speaking  to  the 
different  little  parties  who  loitered  for  him,  or  for  others, 
and  whom  he  overtook,  in  the  new-broken  snow. 

Late  as  it  was,  he  turned  aside  and  went  quickly  into 
Mrs.  Barre's  house.     She  was  ready  to  go  to  church. 

"  You  see  I  have  my  bride's  clothes  on,  Mr.  Wcllon," 
said  she,  trying  to  smile,  as  she  called  his  attention  to  her 
deep-dark  dress.  The  smile  flickered  and  went  out,  as 
if  the  tears  that  came  in  spite  of  her  had  quenched  it. 

Ah !  no  one  can  tell  what  is  in  woman,  or  in  humanity, 
till  he  has  known  a  noble  wife.  There  is  no  other  such 
thing  on  earth. 

Pale  and  beautiful  in  her  wifehood, — trembling,  as  the 
hand  told  him,  while  he  held  it,  the  look  of  her  not  only 
struck  the  pastor  speechless,  but  scemcil  to  fill  little 
Mary  with  a  tender  awe.  The  Englis'  >(  .-vant  wept 
quietly ;  and  another  woman  whom  she  iiad  got  here, 
sobbed  without  reserve. 

"  I  do  believe,"  she  said, — "  I  tru^•t, — that  if  I  should 
never  lift  ray  knees,  again,  from  befc  e  the  altar,  (if  God 
permits  me  to  take  that  sacrament  with  my  husband,) — 
I  do  trust  that  the  strongest  wish  I  had,  for  this  world,  has 
beon  satisfied." 

"  Many  long,  happy  years  to  you  !  "  said  the  pastor, 
pressing  her  hand  and  breakmg  away  from  her. 

"  Is  it  nearly  church-time  ? "  she  asked,  evidently 
listening,  all  the  while,  for  a  foot-fall  in  the  entry,  with- 
out. 

"  Yes  ;  I  must  say  good-bye.    God  ble^s  you  ! " 

"  He  might  go  down  the  nearest  way,  if  he  were  very 
late,"  she  said. 


\\\ 


:•!  i 


I  ^ 


i»i 


»H^! 


550 


THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


IV  ::i 


"  lie  ma7/  be  late,  too ;  for  it's  hard  walking  this  morn- 
ing," answered  Mr.  Wellon,  lingering. 

"  Oh  yes  !  you  must  hurry,"  she  said.  "  Don't  stay 
with  me,  much  as  I  should  like  it.  Good  morning !  I 
shall  follow." 

He  looked  back,  often,  on  his  way  to  church,  and  from 
the  church-door.  As  he  went  up  the  aisle  from  the  ves- 
try, his  step  was  quicker  than  usual,  and  his  look  nervous. 
He  cast  a  quick  glance  all  round  the  church  from  Mrs. 
Barre's  seat,  on  rising  from  his  secret  prayer;  he  read 
the  Exhortation  in  an  excited  voice. — For  any  one  who 
might  look  closely,  it  was  to  be  seen  that  Miss  Dare, 
whose  seat  was  in  front  of  Mrs.  Barre's,  and  who  stood 
with  her  eyes  intent  npon  her  Prayer-book,  had  something 
very  unusual  in  her  manner. 

The  Service  went  on  :  Confession,  Absolution,  Lord's 
Prayer,  Versicles ;  the  Priest  said  "  0  God  make  speed 
to  save  us !  "  the  people  answered  "  0  Lord,  make  haste 
to  help  us  ! "  when  the  door  of  the  church  was  opened, 
the  cord  running  over  the  pulley  rattled,  and  a  face  that 
would  not  be  forgotten  in  a  lifetime  showed  itself  in  the 
opening.  Mrs.  Barre,  more  widow-like  than  ever, — her 
gentle  cheek  paler,  her  black  dress  blacker, — was  there, 
and  her  look  was  wild  and  fearful.  She  was  there  but  a 
moment,  and  the  door  closed  again  behind  her.  She  had 
gone  out. 

"  Glory  be  to  the  Father,  and  to  the  Son,  and  to  the 
Holy  Ghost !  "  continued  the  Priest. 

"As  it  was  in  the  Beginning,  is  now  and  ever  shall  be, 
world  without  end. — Amen  !  "  the  people  answered. 

A  strange  man  opened  the  church-door,  and  looking 
up  to  the  Minister,  as  if  to  explain  that  he  could  not  help 
it,  came  right  in,  and  choosing  with  his  eye  his  man,  went 


i  morn- 

I't  stay 
ing !     I 

nd  from 
the  vos- 
lervous. 
nn  Mrs. 
be  read 
3ne  who 
s  Dare, 
ho  stood 
mething 

,  Lord*3 
:e  speed 
ke  haste 
opened, 
ace  that 
in  the 
er, — her 
as  there, 
re  but  a 
She  had 

i  to  the 

?hall  be, 
ed. 

looking 
not  help 
an,  went 


FATHER  DE  lUill-:  IS   WAITED  FOR,   AND   SOUGHT.    551 

Straight  to  Skipper  Isaac  INIarchant,  whose  seat  was  near 
the  door,  and  sj)oke  a  few  words  in  his  ear.  The  skipper 
glanced  up  at  the  Minister  a  meaning  look,  laid  down  his 
book,  glanced  up  again  at  the  Minister,  and  beckoning 
with  a  slight  motion  of  his  head,  to  some  young  men  of 
his  own  family  and  others,  who  were  near  him,  and  who 
were  all  ready,  i'rom  what  they  had  seen,  went  out  with 
the  man,  and  they  followed. 

The  church  was  all  full  of  people, — crowded  with  blue- 
jackets ;  (for  our  people  were  all  back  from  Lab'  ■  , 
and  they  all  come  when  they  are  in  the  harbor,)  the  "e 
was  beginning  quite  a  stir  among  the  whole  congregation, 
on  the  ttoor  and  in  the  gallery. 

The  Priest  paused,  and  leaning  over  said  a  word  to 
one  near  him,  and  waited  for  an  answer.  In  a  moment 
it  was  brought  80  him. 

"•  Let  us  phay  ! "  he  said,  breaking  the  Order  of 
Mornin<T  Pmver;  and  the  voice  brought  the  hundreds  of 
people,  already  excited,  (but  waiting  upon  the  MUiirifr 
instesid  (d'  going  forth,)  to  their  knees,  with  one  stroke, 
like  weapons  ordered  to  the  ground. 

'•  O  Great  and  Mighty  God,"  said  the  Priest,  "  Who 
alone  doest  Wonders,  Who  seest  a  Path  in  the  Sea,  and 
a  Way  in  the  Wilderness,  and — Footsteps  m  ///«  track- 
less Snow" one  thrill  of  understanding,  or  of  j^trange, 

unworded  ^ead  went  through  all  the  people,  like  a  c\M 
from  the  ice,  (for  there  was  one,  same  stir  among  them, 
telling  or  it,)  "  go  forth  with  us,  we  humbly  })ray  Thee, 
to  find  our  Brother,  who  is  lost !  and  in  Thy  safe  keeping, 
oh,  keep  him  safe,  whom  Thou  hast  kept,  and  bring  him 
safe,  whom  Thou  hast  brought  safe  through  other  Wan- 
denngs  ;  and  oh,  Most  Loving  Father  !  with  Thy  sweet 
Help,  bless  her  who  has  been  long  waiting, — througl) 
Jesus  Christ,  Our  Lord." 


Ml.  I 

MM  i 


I 


m 


*..,!;Si 


r)r)2 


THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


"Amen  ! "  said  all  the  people ;  and  Priest  and  people 
rose  to  their  feet. 

The  English  Priest,  trained  in  the  old  prayers,  had 
struck  a  vein  of  homely  P^nglish,  which  all  ki-iew  and  felt, 
through  all  their  hearts. 

"  Brethren ! ''  said  he,  "  God  has  another  service  for 
us,  towards  Him  and  towards  our  neighbor  this  day. 
Let  the  women  and  those  who  cannot  go,  pray  for  us  at 
home. — Now  let  us  ask  God's  blessing ! " 

They  all  kneeled  down  for  it ;  but  the  Minister  seemed 
moved  by  an  inspiration: — 

"  Walter  De  Brie  !  "  he  exclaimed,  unexpectedly,  and 
took  upon  iiis  lips  those  words,  that  have  cheered  and 
comforted  so  many  near  to  death,  as  if  he  co»:ld  speak 
out  into  the  Waste  of  Snow :  ''  Unto  God's  gracious 
Mercy  and  Protection  we  commit  thee.  The  Lord  bless 
thee  and  keep  thee !  The  Lord  make  His  face  to  shine 
upon  thee,  and  be  gracious  unto  thee  !  The  Lord  lift  up 
the  Light  of  His  Countenance  upon  thee,  and  give  thee 
peace,  both  now — and — evermore  !  " 

One  sob  burst  forth  aloud  from  Miss  Dare ;  then 
there  was  silence,  and  then  the  Clerk  and  people  said 
"Amen ! " 

And  th«'n  came  the  Blessing:  "The  peace  of  God 
which  passeth  all  Understanding,  keep  your  Hearts  and 
Minds  in  the  Knowledge  and  Love  of  God,  and  of  His 
Son,  Jesus  Christ,  Our  Lord !  and  the  Blessing  of  God 
Almighty,  the  Father,  the  Son,  and  the  Holy  Ghost,  be 
amongst  you,  and  remain  with  you  always  !  *' — "Amen  ! " 

The  bervic*i  in  the  House  of  God  was  done,  for  that 
/b^-  TJve  neoftle  poured  forth.  Our  priest  said  a  few 
words  tc  Xkh'i  T>wr  whose  face  was  all  marred  with 
tears,  and  fJ»€)j   ;:"irricc.ly  followed  Ihem. 


FATHER  DE  BRIE  IS  WAITED   FOR,  AND  SOUGHT.    553 


I  people 

ers,  had 
and  felt, 

vice  for 
his  day. 
for  us  at 

seemed 

dly,  and 
red  and 
d  speak 
gracious 
)rd  bless 
to  shine 
d  lift  up 
;ive  thee 

'e ;  then 
)ple  said 

of  God 
arts  and 
\  of  His 
;  of  God 
jrhost,  be 
Amen ! " 

for  that 
aid  a  few 
red  with 


"  Right  over  to  the  Barrens  :  he  was  on  his  way  across 
from  Ncw-ITiirbor ! "  said  he,  as  he  came  forth,  and  hur- 
ried on,  staying  for  no  parley.  Tiie  New-Harbor  man 
who  had  come  into  the  church,  had  gone  on,  as  fast  as 
possible,  before. 

The  Iresh,  loose  snow  was  hard  to  walk  in,  as  they 
went,  but  no  man  thought  of  laijginn;.  Men  crowding 
tlie  way  made  w'ay  for  tl»e  Par-on,  and  followed  faster. 
There  was  no  time  losi  amonn;  them.  Among  the  fore- 
most,  and  every  where,  among  the  crowd,  were  women. 
For  plan  and  order  there  is  a  sort  of  star.ding  organiza- 
tion of  our  fishermen,  under  their  skippers,  sufficient  for 
the  purpose  of  such  a  work. 

The  Parson  stopped  and  looked  in  hurriedly  at  Mrs. 
Barre's  ;  the  door  was  open ;  the  house  was  empty.  He 
hurried  on,  faster  than  before. 

Whoever  in  the  harbor  had  a  horse,  turned  aside  to  his 
house,  and,  harnessing  it  in  haste,  mounted  and  hurried 
on.  The  dogs  from  the  whole  harbor  swelled  the  sad 
search.  As  Mr.  Wellon  came  forth,  mounted,  his  great, 
black,  kind-hearted  "  Eppy,"  of  whom  Mr.  De  Brie  had  so 
lately  said,  playfully,  that  *'  they  might  be  better  friends 
one  day,"  came  forth  also,  as  solemnly  as  if  he  knew  that 
this  was  no  common  errand,  and  stopped  a  moment  in 
the  road,  with  his  tail  down,  and  sniffed  the  wintry  air 
from  the  direction  of  the  Barrens. 

The  sky  was  leaden  over  all,  and  the  cold  wind  came 
sharply  from  the  north. 

On  the  little  beach,  near  the  meadow^,  which  is  so  pretty 
in  summer,  was  a  group  o^  three  persons  ;  the  middle  one 
being  Mrs.  Barre,  the  two  others  Miss  Dare  and  Skipper 
George's  daughter.     Others  lingered  not  far  off. 

As  he  drew  near,   the  pastor  threw  himself  from  his 


t.i     r 


li     t 


I 


554 


THE  NEW   PRIEST. 


I: 


fl 


9^'   ■   ^ 


:li^^ .    : 

Iki 

horse,  and  begged  Mrs.  Barre  to  "  trust  the  search  to  her 
friends,  who  would  not  leave  any  thing  undone  that  men 
could  do,  and  to  seek  some  shelter.  She  might  destroy 
herself." 

"  No  !  No  !  "  said  she,  wildly,  "  hes  in  the  open  air  !  I 
might  die  of  waiting  in  the  house.  If  I  can't  help  it,  I'll 
go  into  some  cottage  by-and-by ;  but  not  yet." 

While  she  spoke,  she  gave  him  silently  a  letter,  and  as 
he  looked,  somewluit  confused  by  his  feelings,  at  the  out- 
side, she  said,  "  The  pencil-writing ! "  and  looked  at  him 
so  earnestly,  that  he  understood  it  as  a  mute  request, 
and  read  aloud,  or  rather  in  a  voice  broken, — 

"  '  My  own  sweet  Wife, — Father  Terence  was  waiting, 
and  I  can't  slight  him.  I  will  come,  God  willing,  the 
first  possible  moment,  to  be  with  you  at  Holy  Communion 
to-morrow,  and  never  to  leave  you  again.  Do  you  re- 
memher  the  anniversary,  Darling'^  That  first  Day  in 
Jamaica !  Look  at  the  Collect,  Epistle,  and  Gospel  for 
St.  Andrew,  and  apply  them  to  me. — Till  we  meet.  Good- 
bye !  Good-bye  !  My  best  and  dearest !  God  be  with  you  ! 
— Yr.  own  Walter.'  " 

Mr.  Wellon  made  great  effort  at  the  words  "  Till  we 
meet ;  "  but  in  vain.  He  could  not  read  them  in  a  steady 
voice,  or  without  tears.  Mrs.  Barre  kneeled  right  down 
upon  the  snow,  lifting  her  pale,  streaming  face  and  her 
hands  supplicatingly  to  Heaven;  her  young  supporters 
bore  themselves  wonderfully. 

Mrs.  Barre  was  not  long  in  summoning  that  tender 
strength  which  she  had  shown  in  all  her  trials,  and  taking 
her  precious  letter  in  her  hand  again,  said,  "  Oh  !  Mr. 
Wellon,  do  not  wait !  Do  not  let  the  snow  oome  !  " 

"  Indeed  I  won't !  "  said  he.  "  What  I  would  do  for 
my  brother,  I'll  do  for  him  :    of  course ! " 


rATIIEU  DE  BRIE  IS  WAITED  FOK,  AND  SOUGHT.    555 

Pa?t  fjroups  of  men  and  women,  and  single  riders,  he 
silently  hurried.  The  snow  was  still  broken  before  him, 
as  he  hurried  on,  and  he  passed  party  after  party  still, 
of  people  from  Peterport  and  Castle-Bay.  Near  the 
edge  of  the  Barrens,  a  place  which  has  been  described  as 
it  was  in  summer,  he  found  the  foremost ;  the  New- 
riarbor  man  that  had  come  to  the  church,  and  another 
stranger,  and  with  them  Ski])per  George,  Skipper  Isaac, 
Skipper  Henry,  young  Mr.  Urston,  Jesse  Hill,  Isaac 
MafFen,  and  Mr.  r>angs.  They  were  just  coming  to  a 
halt.  Before  them  the  snow  had  been  broken  only  by 
the  two  men  that  had  come  across. 

While  they  were  making  their  short  and  simple  ar- 
rangements, one  of  the  strange  men  told  all  that  there 
was  of  story  : — 

"  The  gentleman  had  not  come  down  in  the  morning, 
and  his  chamber  was  found  empty.  Mr.  Oldhame  had 
instantly  made;  up  this  little  party  in  pursuit.  On  their 
way  over  they  had  not  expected  to  find  tracks,  for 
they  were  probably  several  hours  behind  him,  and  much 
snow  had  fallen ;  but  they  found  that  he  had  not  got 
out" 

"  Perhaps  he  never  laved  the  t'other  side,  sir,"  said 
Skipper  George  to  Mr.  Wellon. 

The  Parson  looked  up  at  the  New-ITarbor  man  with 
a  flash  of  hope  ;  but  it  was  soon  quenched.  The  man 
said : — 

"  'E  was  for  setting  off,  last  evenun,  a'most ;  but  they 
persuaded  'im  off  it ;  "  and  Mr.  Wellon  recalled  the  letter, 
and  said,  wdth  sad  assurance : — 

"  He  wrote  to  his  wife  that  he  meant  to  come,  the  first 
minute  he  could  get  away,  and  hoped  to  be  at  the  Com- 
munion with  her  to-day." 


I 


!i   ' 


I!.     I 


\ 


I     I 


556 


THE  NEW   niK^^\\ 


"  Di'l  'o,  now,  sir  ?  '*  said  Skipper  Iroorgc.  "  TKei\  \ 
make  no  doubt  but  'e  ve  atrled  it ;  "  and  i\w  \vhv>le  com- 
pany assented. 

'*  Th^Y  said  'e  corned  over  once,  without  any  botly^  »«\ld 
fehp  st^'anger,  "an'  I  suppose  'e  didn't  think  v^^  the  ditfev- 
eijwe  o'  the  snow." 

"  The  i)Oor  gentleman  !  the  poor  gentleman  I  *^  siyul 
Skipper  George ;  "  but  raubbe  'e  isn'  dead.  \l^y  nuiid 
was  brought  back,  thank  God ! " — but  then.  Skipper 
George's  hoys  and  his  orphan  nephews  had  never  come 
alive  out  of  the  ice  ! 

It  was  speedily  arranged  that  they  should  push  over  to 
the  other  side  of  the  Barrels  ;  and  while  one  went 
straight  on  to  New-Harbor,  the  rest  should  take  every 
opening  through  the  Woods  *nd  every  path  into  the  Bar- 
rens, and  follow  it  out.  Skip^xu-  Edward  Ressle  and 
Skis)per  Abrara  Marehant,  it  was  said,  had  gone  along 
the  Bay-E      \  to  cross  from  other  points. 

The  only  hasty  preparations  now  made  had  been  to  put 
off  every  unnecessary  weight  to  go  back  with  the  horses. 
Some  extra  coats,  and  several  bottles  of  spirits,  the  ad- 
vancing party  took  with  them.  Skipper  Isaac  gave  the 
parting  directions  to  the  iiien  who  took  the  beasts  back. 

"  Ef  snow  doesn't  come  in  an  hour's  time,  an'  keep  on, 
then,  an  hour  after  that,  again,  come  in  wi'  the  horses,  an' 
bide  an  hour,  or  thereabouts.  Ef  we'm  not  here,  by  that 
time,  we  slimll  stay  a'  t'other  side." 

M^y  had  come  up,  during  the  short  delay,  and  among 
them  came,  panting,  the  Parson's  dog,  who  had  not  been 
able  ro  keep  up  with  his  master.  As  they  were  now  all 
foot-travellers,  he  had  no  difficulty,  and  went  before  them, 
in  the  dreary  [)ath  toward  the  great  waste  of  snow  over 
which  the  dreary  wind  came  blowing  sharply. 


IrAtHER  DE  BlUE  KS   WAITED  FOR,  AND  SOUGHT.    T);")? 

i 
The  (log  mounteil  the  hillock,  a  little  way  within  tlie 

Barrens,  ami  giving  a  short,  sharp  bark,  plunged  down 
the  other  side. 

The  men  all  rushed  together ;  and  in  the  gulsh  at  the 
foot  of  the  opposite  rise,  lay,  black  upon  the  snow,  fair  in 
the  mici-pathway,  a  still  body,  with  the  dog  nozzling  at  it. 


J  ■ 


I  i 


I    1 


6r)8 


TllK  Ni:U'    I'HIKST. 


^ii 


CHAPTER    LIX. 


THE    wife's    MKETING. 


M 


fill-: 


'  \. 


iT  was  a  drlff,  two  or  three  feet  deep,  in  and  upon 
which  the  still  body  lay.  The  cheek  of  the  right 
•^  side  was  next  the  snow  ;  the  head  was  bare ;  the 
left  hand  holding,  or  seeming  to  hold,  the  hat ;  while  the 
right  arm  was  curved  about  the  head.  The  outside  coat 
was  partly  open,  from  the  top  downwards,  as  if  the  wearer 
might  have  unbuttoned  it,  when  heated. 

The  whole  attitude  was  that  of  one  who  had  laid  him- 
self down  to  sleep  at  summer-noon,  and  the  face  was 
lovely  as  in  sleep  ;  the  eyelids  were  not  fast  closed  ;  there 
was  a  delicate  color  in  the  cheek,  and  the  lips  were  red. 
There  was  a  bright,  conscious  look,  too,  as  of  one  that 
was  scarcely  asleep,  even. 

"Thank  God!  he's  alive!"  said  young  Mr.  Urston, 
speaking  first.  "  Father  Ignatius !  "  he  called,  taking  him 
by  the  hand ;  then,  correcting  himself,  "  Mister  De  Brie  !" 

"Ay!  he'll  never  spake  to  yon  name,  no  more,"  said 
the  Protestant  Jesse. 

The  Parson,  having  quickly  tried  the  wrist,  was  now 
feeling  within  the  clothing,  over  the  heart,  and  looking 
anxiously  into  the  face. 

The  hair  was  blown  restlessly  by  the  wind  ;  but  there 
was  no  waking,  nor  any  sylf-moving  of  the  body. 


THE  WIFE'S  MEETING. 


r)r)9 


nd  upon 
he  right 
are ;  the 
fhile  the 
side  coat 
e  wearer 

aid  him- 
ace  was 
i  ;  there 
ere  red. 
one  that 

Urston, 
cing  him 
3  Brie!" 
re,"  said 

was  now 
looking 

ut  tliere 


"N'y,"  said  Skipper  George,  gravely,  "I'm  afeard 
thi8  is  n' liviin.— Oh  !  Oh!" 

"  T  saw  a  house  not  but  a  step  or  two  off,  's  we  come 
along,"  said  Mr.  Bangs,  who  had  been  chafing  the  hands 
with  brandy,  and  had  tenderly  rubbed  a  little,  with  his  lin- 
ger, insid(;  the  nostrils. 

Mr.  Wellon,  rising  from  the  snow,  shook  his  head  and 
turned  away.  "  No,  no,''  he  said,  as  if  to  the  question  of 
life  ; — '*  and  he'd  got  into  the  right  road  /  " 

"  Why,  he's  warm,  sir,"  urged  Urston  ;  "  certainly,  he's 
warm  !  "  The  Constable  felt  of  the  flesh  and  said  noth- 
ing. 

"Shall  us  take  un  to  the  tilt?"  asked  Jesse.  "It's 
Will  Resslc's,  Mr.  Banks  manes.— He's  close  by." 

"  By  all  means  !  "  answered  the  Parson.  "  Yes  !  " 
"  Yes!"  said  Skipper  Isaac  and  the  bystanders. 

"  See,  sir !  "  said  Skipper  George,  "  'e  didn'  fall  down. 
'E've  laid  himself  down  to  rest,  most  like,  where  the  snow 
was  soft,  and  failed  asleep. — That's  bin  the  w'y  of  it. 
I've  bin  a'most  so  far  gone,  myself,  sir,  afore  now." 

"  See  how  the  hair  is  smoothed  .away  from  his  temples," 
said  young  Urston. 

"  'Twas  the  dog !  "  answered  the  old  fisherman,  ten- 
derly, "  wi'  tryun  to  bring  un  to. — Yes,"  he  added,  "  'e 
v^as  out  o'  the  path,  when  the  good  n'ybors  from  t'other 
side  corned  along,  an  'e  got  into  un,  agen,  after — an'  'e 
was  tired  when  'e  coined  to  this  heavy  walkun,  an'  so — 
What'll  come  o'  the  {)Oor  lady !  " 

As  they  lifted  the  body  carefully  out  of  the  snow,  to 
bear  it  away,  a  new  voice  spoke  : — 

*'  Won't  ye  put  more  clothing  on  um,  for  it's  blowing 
bitter  cold?" 

Father  Terence  had  made  his  way  from  New-Harbor 


« 


>ii 


IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


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Photographic 

Sciences 
Corporation 


23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER, N.Y.  I4S80 

(716)  873-4503 


SV 


^^ 


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o\ 


SCO 


THE  NEW   PKIKST. 


Rr  ^- 


and  apprOi;ched  the  group  in  silence.      He  oflfered,  for  a 
wrji|)per,  his  own  great-coat,  whicli  ho  had  taken  off. 

"  We've  agot  store  o'  wrappuns,  sir ;  many  thanks  to 
you,  sir,  all  the  same,"  answered  Jesse  Hill,  very  heart- 
ily ;  and  others,  too,  made  their  acknowledgments. — They 
wrapped  the  body,  from  head  to  i'oot,  in  their  blankets, 
hastily. 

Mr.  Wellon  saluted  Father  Terence,  saying  that  "  he 
had  very  little  hope — indeed,  he  feannl  that  there  was  no 
hope — of  that  body  being  restored  to  life." 

"  Oh,  dear !  I  fear  not,  I  fear  not ! "  said  Father  Terence, 
wiping  gentle  tears  away.  "  Why  would  he  come  ?  Or 
why  did  1  hinder  urn  comin'  last  night  ? — God  have  mercy 
upon  urn  ! — Absolve,  quesumus  Domine,  animam  ejus,"* 
he  added,  privately,  or  something  to  that  effect. 

Skipper  Isa.nc  held  the  body  against  his  own ;  Jessc 
and  Isaac  Maffen  and  young  Mr.  Urston  helped  to  ben 
it ;  and  they  went,  accompanied  by  all  the  others,  as  fast 
as  they  could  go,  through  the  snow,  toward  the  tilt. 
Skipper  George  bore  the  hat,  upon  which  the  grasp  of 
the  owner's  cold  hand  had  not  been  fast.  "  Eppy,"  who 
had  done  his  dumb  part  before  any,  now  followed  meekly 
behind.  Behind  all,  came  the  cold,  hard  wind  from 
the  Barrens,  whirling  the  snow  from  time  to  time.  The 
sk;  over  all  was  hidden  by  thick  clouds,  foreboding 
storm. 

Within  the  tilt  all  that  they  knew  how  to  do,  was  done 
thoroughly.  More  than  once  some  one  of  those  engaged 
exclaimed  that  the  flesh  was  growing  warmer ;  but  life 
did  not  come  back,  and  the  flesh  grew  surely  colder. 
The  body  was  dead;  and  they  gave  over  their  useless 
wr>rk    upon    it,  and    clothed    it    as    before. — There    it 

*  Abbulvi',  wc  beseech,  Lord,  his  soul) 


^    t 


THE  WIFE'S   MEETING. 


5(51 


s  to 
^art- 


Or 


»# 


lay;  no  priest,  no  layman,  no  husband,  no  father, 
no  man ! — but  it  was  sacred,  and  it  was  reverently 
treated,  as  belonging  to   Christ,  who  would  give  it  life, 


again. 


Some  said, — among  themselves, — that  Father  O'Toole 
had  not  staid  long. 

"What  more  could  'e  do?"  asked  Gilpin.— « 'E  did 
more  'n  many  would  ; " — "  an*  'e  spoke  proper  feelun, 
like,"  said  others.      "  Bless  the  old  gentleman ! " 

Crowds  had  been  gathering  about  the  place  where  the 
melancholy  work  was  going  on ;  these  the  constable,  and 
Mr.  Skilton  and  William  Frank  occupied,  drawing  them 
a  little  apart,  that  there  might  be  no  hindrance,  from  the 
numbers,  to  those  who  were  busy  about  the  dead.  The 
sad,  short  story,  stilled  and  saddened  all.  "  Dead !  " — 
"  Is  'e  dead  ?  " — "  so  near  home,  too  !  " — "  It's  pity  for 
un  ! " — "  But  'e  died  Lappy,  however ! "  said  different 
voices. 

Presently  snow,  from  the  thick  sky,  began  to  be  borne 
upon  the  wind. 

Gilpin,  at  this,  hastened  to  the  door,  and  others,  coming 
out,  met  him. 

"  How'll  we  cany  un  ?  "  the  constable  asked,  in  a  low 
voice.     "  O'  horseback  ?  " 

"  We  was  just  spakun,"  said  Jesse,  "  'twould  look  like 
mockun  the  dead,  to  take  un  ridun,  to  my  seemun." 

"  Ay,  but  we've  got  to  be  quick  about  it ;  the  snow's 
coming ! " 

"  What's  to  bender  we  carryun?  sure  it's  more  feelun. 
We  wouldn*  begredge  walkun  all  the  w'y  to  B'y  Harbor, 
ef  'twas  to  B'y- Harbor,  even  ef  it  snowed,  itself." 

"  It  would  be  long  waiting  for  a  slide — ,"  said  the  con- 
stable. 

86 


562 


THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


I 


Bt)? 

1 

■  '-1 

»' 

■h    1 

Hi     i 

1 

Mi 

rl 

in,         ' 

VI   ! 

"  An*  we  could'n  have  un  bide  in  tlie  cold,  here,  while 
we  was  w'itun,"  said  Jesse,  "  in  course." 

It  was  arranged  that  one  or  two  of  the  young  men,  on 
the  best  horses,  should  make  their  way  at  the  utmost 
speed,  to  James  Bishop's,  the  nearest  neighborly  house 
in  Castle-Bay,  and  bring  his  sled  or  "  slide,"  and,  in  the 
mean  time,  relays  of  bearers  were  to  carry  the  body  on- 
ward with  what  haste  they  could. 

The  crowd  making  a  long  procession,  both  before  and 
behind  the  bearers,  trampled  the  snow  ;  for  the  most  part 
irA  silence.  Up  the  hills  and  down,  many  men  taking 
turns  at  bearing  the  body,  they  made  their  way  between 
the  woods ;  while  sometimes  the  snow  fell  thickly,  and, 
sometimes,  the  thick  clouds  could  be  seen  before  them 
and  overhead. 

Three  heavy  miles  they  had  got  over,  when  the  slide 
met  them  ;  and  then  the  burden  was  transferred  to  it ;  a 
sort  of  dasher,  or  fender,  of  boughs  was  speedily  set  up 
to  keep  off  the  snow  thrown  by  the  horse's  feet ;  and  they 
went  on :  the  Parson,  Skipper  George,  Skipper  Isajic, 
Skipper  Henry,  Skipper  Edward,  the  constable,  and 
others  of  chief  authority  and  dignity,  attended  at  the  sides 
and  behind  the  sledge ;  all  beside  giving  place  to  them. 
Suddenly  there  was  a  commotion,  making  itself  felt  from 
the  foremost ;  and  then  the  whole  procession  opened  to 
either  side,  leaving  tlie  road  bare  between. 

''  Cast  off  the  horse ! "  cried  Skipper  George  in  a 
quick  low  tone,  seeing  who  was  coming.  The  order 
was  obeyed,  as  hastily  as  possible,  and  then  the  slide  was 
left  alone,  in  the  middle  of  the  way,  while  the  crowd  at 
each  side  stood  huddled  upon  itself,  and  hushed. 

"  Oh,  I  knew  it !  Oh !  "  said  a  woman's  voice,  heard 
by  every  one,  with  such  a  moan  of  wretchedness  that 


THE  WIFE'S  MEETING. 


503 


every  man  seemed  to  start,  as  if  it  were  an  appeal  to 
himself.  Mrs.  Barre,  pale  as  death,  with  tears  streaming 
down  her  cheeks,  and  with  hght  snow  lying  upon  her 
dark  hair  and  on  many  parts  of  her  black  dress, — bearing 
in  her  hand,  (aa  she  had  borne,  hours  before,)  a  letter, — 
rushed  between  the  sundered  crowds,  and  at  the  side  of 
the  sledge  fell  down,  across  the  muffled  load  that  lay 
upon  it.     Every  person  near  drew  away. 

Great  passion  appropriates  absolutely  to  itself  the  time 
and  place,  and  makes  all  other  things  and  persons  sub- 
ordinate and  accessory. 

For  this  widowed  lady's  sorrow  the  earth  and  sky 
were  already  fitted  ;  and  so  were,  not  less,  the  kind  hearts 
of  these  men  and  women. 

She  lay  with  her  face  buried  in  the  folds  of  the  cloak 
which  Mr.  Wellou  had  spread  over  her  husband's  body, 
and  uttered  a  fondling  murmur  against  the  wall  of  that 
desolated  chamber,  as,  not  long  ago,  she  had  murmured 
fondly  against  the  strong,  warm  bosom  of  her  recovered 
love.     Many  by-standers  sobbed  aloud. 

Then  she  lifted  her  head,  and  turned  down  the  covering 
from  the  face. 

"  Oh,  Walter !  "  she  said,  clasping  her  two  hands  under 
the  heavy  head,  and  gazing  at  the  stiffening  features, 
"  Oh,  my  noble  husband  ! — My  beautiful,  noble  husband ! " 
then,  shaking  her  head,  while  the  tears  dropped  from  her 
eyes,  said,  in  a  broken  voice :  "  Is  this  all,  Walter  ?  Is 
this  the  end  ? — Yes,  and  it's  a  good  end ! "  And  again  she 
buried  her  face  on  the  dead  bosom.  "  Well ! — Oh,  well ! 
I  did  not  seek  you  for  myself! — It  never  was  for  myself! 
No!— No!" 

The  effort  to  subdue  the  human  love  to  the  divine, 
triumphed  in  the  midst  of  tears. 


564 


THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


?  1 


if* 


I'  '^i 


i'  ^ 


By-and-by  she  rose  up,  and  with  streaming  eyes 
and  clasped  hands,  turned  toward  the  Minister  and 
said : — 

"  I  am  ready,  Mr.  Wellon !  Let  us  go  I  God's  will  be 
done ! " 

She  stooped  once  more ;  looked  with  intense  love  and 
sorrow  at  the  face,  wiped  her  tears  from  the  cold  features, 
covered  them  again,  carefully,  and  turned  her  face  toward 
the  rest  of  the  way,  homeward. 

Tiie  constable  made  a  gesture  to  Jesse  Hill  and  young 
Mr.  Urston,  and  the  horse  was  again  harnessed  to  the 
slide.  The  Parson,  leading  his  horse,  (which  had  been 
brought  so  far  on  the  return,  by  one  of  the  young  men,) 
came  to  Mrs.  Barre's  side  and  took  her  arm  in  his.  He 
begged  her  to  allow  herself  to  be  lifted  to  the  saddle,  and 
to  ride.  Skipper  George,  also,  had  come  forward  to 
suggest  the  same  thing. 

"  It  is'n  fittun  the  lady  should  walk  home,  sir,"  said  he 
to  the  pastor,  apart. 

Mrs.  Barre  heard  and  understood,  and  answered : — 

"  Would  it  make  the  load  too  heavy —  ? — "  she  finished 
with  a  longing  look  the  sentence  which  was  not  finished 
with  words. 

The  fishermen  at  first  hesitated  at  the  thought  of  her 
going  upon  the  sledge  that  bore  her  husband's  corpse. 

"  It  wouldn't  be  too  heavi/  ;  "  one  of  them  said ;  and  as 
if  no  objection  could  be  made,  she  went,  and,  putting  her 
arm  tenderly  underneath,  lifted  the  body,  seated  herself 
upon  the  bier,  taking  the  muflBed  head  in  her  lap,  and 
bent  over  it,  lost  to  all  things  else. 

All  other  arrangements  for  riding  and  walking  having 
been  quietly  made,  the  procession  again  set  forward 
towards  home  faster  than  before.     The  snow,  at  times. 


THE  WIFE'S  MEETING. 


5C5 


fell  fast ;  but  in  about  an  hour  more  they  were  descend- 
ing the  high  hill  into  Castle-Bay ;  and  before  them 
lay  the  gi'eat,  black  sea,  with  its  cold  bordering  of 
white. 

They  passed  along  the  chilly  beach.  At  one  point, 
whether  consciously  or  unconsciously,  Mrs.  Barre  lifted 
her  head  and  looked  toward  both  sea  and  land.  On  the 
landward  side  stretched  a  little  valley,  with  a  knoll  and 
rock,  and  tree  at  its  northern  edge ;  a  sweet  spot  in 
summer,  but  now  lonely  and  desolate.  She  gave  a  sort 
of  cry,  and  turned  from  the  sight. 

"  O  my  God,  thou  knowest ! "  she  could  be  heard  to 
say,  sobbing  over  her  husband's  body  ;  and  she  looked  up 
no  more  until,  in  another  hour,  with  the  cold  stars  and 
drifting  clouds  over  head,  they  had  reached  her  desolate 
house. 

"  My  dear  brethren,"  said  our  priest,  "  we  have  not 
lost  our  Sunday ;  let  us  close  this  day  with  prayer ! " 

He  and  all  the  men  stood,  heedless  of  the  wintry  wind, 
uncovered  before  God,  and  he  said : — 

«  We  thank  Thee,  O  Merciful  Father,  that  Thou  hast 
given  to  us  this,  our  brother's  body,  to  lay  in  our  hallowed 
ground ;  but,  above  al',  for  the  hope  that  his  soul,  washed 
in  the  blood  of  the  immaculate  Lamb  who  was  slain  to 
take  away  the  sins  of  the  world,  has  been  presented 
without  spot  before  Thee.  Give  our  sister,  we  beseech 
Thee,  strength  and  peace ;  have  her  and  us  in  Thy  safe- 
keeping, and  bring  us  to  Thy  heavenly  house,  through 
Jesus  Christ,  our  Lord." 

The  congregation  having  been  dismissed  with  the  Bless- 
ing, our  priest  and  the  chief  men  reverently  carried 
the  body  into  the  parlor,  and  disposed  it  there,  amid  the 
memorials  of  happy  fbrnier  years,  and  arranged  a  watch. 


566 


THE  NEW  PRIEST. 


CHAPTER  LX. 


FATHEit   TERENCE,   TO    THE    LAST. 


OW  Mrs.  Barre  passed  the  three  days  in  the 
house  with  her  dead  husband's  body,  need  not  be 
told,  if  we  could  tell  it.  The  burying-day  came, 
and  it  was  bright, — there  was  no  cloud.  People  gathered 
from  every  quarter.  All  the  Church-clergy  of  the  Bay 
were  there,  and  the  Weslevan  ministers : — there  are  no 
others  but  Roman  Catholics.  When  the  procession  began 
to  form  from  the  church,  a  murmur  went  through  the 
multitude  ;  there  stood  one  figure  alone  outside  of  the 
array.  All  who  were  near  drew  back  and  left  an  open 
space  for  hiui ,  but  h  j  gave  no  heed  to  it.  This  was  Fa- 
ther Terence. 

He  followed  the  procession,  and,  staying  without  the 
inclosure,  stood  devoutly  during  the  burial  of  the  dead. 
When  the  service  was  all  done,  and  the  crowd  were 
slowly  moving  away,  he  went  down  the  hill  alone  and 
departed. 

The  Minister  was  for  sometime  in  the  churchyard,  and 
afterwards  a  little  while  in  the  church ;  and  when  at 
length  he  went  sadly  homeward,  as  he  passed  Mrs. 
Barre's  house,  he  turned  aside  and  entered. 

"  She's  at  my  aunt's,"  said  Miss  Dare ;  and  then 
silently  put  into  the  pastor's  hand  a  written  paper.     It 


FATHER  TERENCE,  TO  THE  LAST. 


5G7 


was  entitled,  "  Copy  of  a  hyran  in  Mr.  De  Brie's  writing, 
found  on  his  pf:rson,  and  dated  on  the  night  before  his 
last  journey."     It  read  thus  : — 


"TO  GOD  MOST  HIGH. 

"  0,  my  God,  I  have  but  Thee  I 
Earthly  friends  are  faint  and  few; 
To  myself  1  am  not  true ; 
Yet,  my  Lord,  Thou  lovest  me. 

I  am  poor,  and  have  no  more ; 
But  Thy  love  is  in  my  heart; 
Earth  shall  never  tear  apart 
That  which  is  my  hidden  store. 

Many,  many  doubts  and  fears, 
I  have  muny  woes  and  cares  ; 
But  Thou  comcst  at  unawares, 
And  I  see  Thee  through  my  tears. 

I  would  never  be  my  own. 

Nor  on  friends  my  heart-strings  twine ; 

1  do  seek  to  be  but  Thine, 

And  to  love  but  Thee  alone. 

Jesus !  while  Thy  cross  I  see. 
Though  my  heart  do  bleed  with  wo, 
By  those  blessed  streams  I  know 
Blood  of  Thine  was  shed  for  me. 

0,  my  Lord!    Be  Thou  my  guide; 
Let  me  hold  Thee  by  the  hand ; 
Then,  in  drear  and  barren  land, 
I  will  seek  no  friend  beside." 

Llr.  Wellon  held  the  papier  long; — that  was  the  last 
utterance,  to  which  men  were  privy,  of  the  heart  that  was 
now  dead,  unices  these  words,  in  his  wife's  prayer-book 
which  he  had  with  him,  were  written  later:  "I  have 
found  rest!" 


508 


THE  NEW   FKIEST. 


CHAPTER  LXI. 


MRS.    BARRE    AFTERWARDS. 


RS.  BARRE  lived  on,  nobly,  where  the  noblest 
part  of  her  life  had  been,  and  saw  Mary, 
(grown  to  womanhood,)  like  herself,  happy  in 
holy  faith  and  service.     She  lived  on  nobly. 

Once,  on  a  pleasant  summer's  day,  after  no  wasting,  or 
weakening,  or  dependence,  when  her  time  came,  her  life 
went  out  as  a  star  is  lost  in  the  day. 

She  laid  herself  down  at  evening ;  bade  her  maids  stay 
with  her ;  took  from  the  priest  the  Sacred  Body  and 
Blood  ;  joined  with  her  voice  in  the  Church-prayers ; 
lay  still,  with  sofl  breathing,  (and  the  other  Christians, — 
priestly  and  lay,  simple  and  gentle, — breathed  softly  by 
her  bedside,  while  the  sound  of  waves  breaking  upon  the 
far-off  sand  came  in,  and  moonlight  and  shade  lay  calmly 
side  by  side  out  of  doors,  and  dews  fell  calmly ;)  once 
opened  her  eyes  upward,  saying,  through  the  stillness, 
"  Yes ! "  as  if  in  answer ;  turned,  partly,  with  a  bright 
smile,  to  her  friends  ;  then  shut  the  lids  down  softly  for  the 
last  time,  and  so,  with  a  fair  veil  of  smile  hung  over  the 
dead  features,  left  her  body  there  to  be  put  away,  until  it 
shall  be  raised,  in  new  beauty,  to  walk  upon  The  New 
Earth. 


TII£  END   OF  ALL. 


rMi 


CHAPTER  LXII. 


THE    END    OF   ALL. 


E  must  add  something  for  the  reader's  sake. 

Of  course  young  Mr.  Urston  married  Skip- 
per George's  daughter  in  due  time.  He  first 
went  up  to  St.  John's  as  a  Cliurciiman,  and,  finishing  his 
studies,  was  ordained  in  Halifax  to  the  ministry  of  the 
Church.  He  served  his  diaconate  in  the  capital,  and 
when  advanced  to  the  priesthood,  was  appointed  to  the 
mission  at  Castle-Bay,  within  sight  of  his  father's  house ; 
and  a  fine  fellow  he  proved  to  be.  His  wife,  as  the 
reader  will  believe,  was  not  a  whit  unworthy  of  him. 

Father  Terence  was  said  to  be  a  good  deal  changed,  in 
the  last  years  of  his  life ;  having  b*.  come  more  silent  and 
reseiTed.  Some  Roman  Catholics,  who  were  ill-satisfied 
with  his  tolerant  and  kindly  spirit,  gave  him  the  name  of 
the  "  Protestant  Priest."  Indeed,  an  assistant  came 
down  to  him  of  quite  another  sort  from  himself.  Yet  he 
kept  about  his  quiet  way  of  life,  beloved  by  the  great 
body  of  his  people,  until  his  death. 

Fanny  Dare  was  married  happily  to  one  between 
whom  and  herself  an  enjjajjement  had  been  formed  sev- 
eral  years  before,  but  broken  up  for  a  time,  or  clouded 
over,  by  things  and  persons  in  no  way  affecting  their  mu- 
tual love. 


670 


TIIF  NEW  PUIEST. 


A  letter  to  Mr.  Wellon  from  the  midst  of  a  bridal  tour 
on  the  Continent,  described  an  incident  which  may  inter- 
est the  reader. 

In  entering  her  carriage  at  Civita  Vecchia,  she  was 
struck,  without  knowing  wiiy,  by  the  appearance  of  a 
person  in  the  dress  of  an  avvocato^  who  was  bestowing 
most  animated  attentions  upon  an  English  clergyman  and 
otiiers  just  alighted,  to  whose  party  he  seemed  to  be- 
long. Seeing  her  eyes  fixed  upon  him,  he  lifted  his  hat, 
with  a  grave  courtesy,  bowed,  and  turned  away ;  but  she 
had  already  recognized,  not  the  voice  only,  but  the  fea- 
tures of  one  whom  she  had  before  both  seen  and  heard 
in  Newfoundland,  as  Father  Nicholas. 

She  saw  the  same  man,  playing  the  same  part,  after- 
ward, in  Rome ;  and  from  the  best  information  that  she 
could  get,  in  answer  to  careful  inquiries  in  both  places, 
believed  him  to  be  an  agent  in  the  pay  of  the  pontifical 
police. 

Of  any  of  the  other  folk  of  our  tale,  Dear  Reader, 
we  must  guess;  or  go  to  Newfouudlaud  and  ask. 


MARGARET. 

By   Sylvester  Judd.     One  volume.     Price  fi.fa 


SELECTIONS  FROM  SOME  NOTABLE  REVIEWS. 

From  tht  Southtrn  Quaritrly  Rtvuw, 

Thii  book,  more  than  any  other  that  we  have  read,  leads  us  to  believe  in  the 
pofifibiliiy  of  a  distinctive  American  Literature.  ...  It  bears  the  impress  of  New 
ttaglanJ  uptm  all  its  features.  It  will  be  called  the  Yankee  novel,  and  rightly  ;  foi 
a'^where  elw  have  we  seen  the  thought,  dialect,  and  customs  of  a  New  England 
VillaK't  BO  well  and  faithfully  re()re8entcd.  .  .  .  More  sipiiticant  to  our  mind  thic 
tny  book  that  has  yet  api^eared  in  our  country.  To  as  it  seems  to  be  a  nrcphec; 
*f  the  Aiture.  It  contemplates  the  tendencies  of  American  life  and  cnaracter. 
NTuuhere  else  have  we  seen,  so  well  written  out,  the  very  feelings  which  our  rivers 
wd  woods  and  mountains  are  calculated  to  awaken.  .  .  .  We  pi  edict  the  time  when 
Ma/ftaret  will  be  one  of  the  Antiquary's  text-bouks.  It  contains  a  whole  magazins 
of  Ciuioiis  relics  and  habits.  ...  as  a  record  of  great  ideas  and  pure  sentiments,  we 
place  it  among  the  few  great  books  of  the  age." 

From  tht  North  A  mtrican  Review. 

"  We  knovr  not  where  any  could  go  to  find  iriore  exact  and  pleasing  descriptioiM 
<I^the  scenery  of  New  England,  or  of  the  ve);etable  and  aninuil  forms  which  give  it 
Ufe.  ...  As  a  representation  of  manners  as  they  were,  and  in  many  res|)ecis  an 
Itil'.,  in  New  England,  this  book  is  of  great  value." 

From  the  London  Atheturum. 

"This  book,  tlough  published  some  time  since  in  America,  has  only  recently 
brcome  known  here  by  a  few  stray  copies  that  have  found  their  way  over.  Its 
(eadin;^  idea  is  so  well  worked  out,  that,  with  all  its  faults  of  detail,  it  strikes  us  aa 
deserving  a  wider  circulation.  .  .  .  The  book  bears  the  iinpre.ss  of  a  new  country, 
and  is  full  of  rough,  uncivilized,  but  vigorous  life.  The  leading  idea  which  it  seems 
Oitended  to  expound  is,  that  the  surest  way  to  degrade  men  is  to  make  themselves 
degraded  ;  that  so  long  as  that  belief  does  not  poison  the  sources  of  experiencei 
*  Mi  things*  —  even  the  sins,  follies,  mistakes,  so  rife  among  men  —  can  be  made 
'  to  work  together  for  good  '  This  doctrine,  startling  as  it  may  sound  at  first,  ia 
wrought  out  with  a  fineiinowledge  of  human  nature." 

From  tht  A  nti-Slavery  Standard. 

"  A  remarkable  book,  with  much  ^ood  common  sense  in  it.  full  of  deep  thooght 
pervaded  throughout  with  strong  religious  feeling,  a  full  conception  of  the  essence  of 
Christianity,  a  tender  compassion  for  the  present  condition  of  man,  and  an  abiding 
hope  through  love  of  what  his  destiny  may  be.  .  .  .  Dut  all  who,  like  Margaret. 
'  dream  dreams,'  and  '  see  visions,'  and  look  for  that  time  to  come  when  man  shall 
have  'worked  out  his  own  salvation,'  and  peace  shall  reign  on  earth,  and  good-will 
to  men,  will,  if  they  cau  pardon  the  faults  of  the  book  for  its  merit,  read  it  with 
avidity  and  pleasure." 

From  the  Boston  Daily  Advertiser. 

**  This  is  quite  a  remarkable  book,  reminding  you  of  Southey's  '  Doctor,'  per* 
bsps,  more  than  of  any  other  book.  .  .  .  Margaret  is  ?  n^cst  angelic  being,  wiu 
SasvA  everybody  and  whom  everybody  loves,  and  «hiM>e  s'wcet  miftueuce  is  felt 
wlieiever  she  appears.  She  has  visions  of  ideal  beauty,  and  her  waking  eyM  sm 
beauty  .aid  joy  in  every  thing." 

From  the  Christian  Register. 

**l'bis  is  a  remarkable  book.  Its  scene  is  laid  m  New  England,  and  its  period 
ome  half  century  ago.  Its  materials  are  drawn  from  the  most  familiar  elements 
of  every-day  life.  Its  merits  are  so  peculiar,  and  there  is  so  much  that  isariginsl 
Uiil  rich  in  Its  contents,  that,  sooner  o'  .ater,  it  will  be  appreciated.  It  is  impossi- 
ble to  pi«dict  with  assurance  the  fate  of  a  book,  but  we  shall  be  much  mistakes 
if  Manaret  does  not  in  due  season  work  its  way  to  a  degree  of  admiration  soldom 
attained  by  a  work  of  its  class." 

Sold  everywhere*      Mailed^  frefaid^  on  receipt  of  price^ 
by  tie  Publishers^ 

ROBERTS  BROTHERS,  Boston. 


Messrs,  Roberts  Brothers*  Publications, 


RIL.HARD  EDNEY 


AND 


THE  GOVERNOR'S  FAMILY. 

By  SYLVESTER   JUDD. 
One  volume.      i6mo.      Cloth.      Price,  $1.50. 


"  Its  author  is  best  known  from  his  first  book,  '  Margaret,'  a  work  in  the  form 
of  fiction,  whose  remarkable  thoughtfulness  and  originality  made  much  impression 
on  cultivated  minds.  '  Richard  Edney '  was  intended  to  have  more  directness 
as  a  story,  ^nd  it  to  some  extent  succeeded  in  this  aim.  Like  '  Margaret,' 
h'  vever,  its  chief  value  is  as  the  production  of  a  writer  of  marked  freshness  and 
individuality  of  mental  character.  'Richard  Edney'  is  by  no  means  without 
interest  regarded  solely  as  a  story,  but  its  merit  as  a  picture  of  New  England  life 
and  a  study  of  character  overshadows  any  such  distinction.  It  is  as  far  removed 
from  the  commonplace  as  possible  in  these  respects.  The  man  who  wrote  it  was 
a  man  of  genius.  His  works  have  an  undoubted  place  in  American  literature." 
—  Saturday  Evening  Gazette. 

"  The  story  is  an  excellent  one.  Richard  Edney  is  a  model  young  man,  who, 
through  intelligence,  industry,  and  integrity,  attains  honor  and  prosperity.  He 
reaches  mora'  and  social  eminence,  through  a  rough  experience  in  the  world's 
devious  ways.  The  avowed  object  of  the  '■ook  is  to  show  by  this  bright  example 
that  young  men  should  rise  in  their  calling,  not  out  of  it.  The  great  excellence  of 
this  author's  work  is,  however,  found  in  his  transcripts  of  New  England  scenery 
and  his  pictures  of  New  Englnnd  homes  at  the  time  the  events  occurred.  Every 
one  will  admire  the  fidelity  of  the  description  of  a  snow-storm,  the  charming 
portraits  of  Memmyand  Bobby  at  his  first  interview,  the  domestic  fireside  at  the 
Governer's  home,  and  countless  other  similar  scenes.  Independent  of  its  excel* 
lence  as  a  romance,  and  its  pleasant  way  of  inculcating  noble  principles  of  action, 
it  will  attain  a  constantly  increasing  value  for  its  vivid  and  faithful  presentation  of 
New  England  life."  — Jotirttal and  Courier,  New  Haven, 

"  '  Richard  Edney  and  the  Governor's  Family '  is  a  title  that  attracts  the 
attention  at  once,  and  when  one  pores  over  its  pages  he  is  sure  to  become  interested 
as  he  proceeds,  and  soon,  like  ourselves,  of  the  opinion  that  it  is  a  capital  story. 
It  is  just  what  it  claims  to  be,  namely,  a  rus-urban  tale,  simple  and  popular^ 
yet  cultured  and  noble  of  murals,  sentiment,  and  life,  particularly  treated  and 
pleasantly  illustrated."  —  Boston  Post, 


Sold  by  all  booksellers.     Mailed,  post-paid,  on  receipt  of  price, 
by  the  publishers, 

ROBERTS    BROTHERS,  Boston. 


4 


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1 


„ 


^ 


ROBERTS    BROTHERS' 

Companionate 8  Books  for  Home  or  Travel, 


1.  The  Story  of  an  African  Farm.   A  Novel.  By 

Ralph   Iron  (Olive   Schreineu).     Price,  6o  cents. 

2.  Glorinda.      A  Story.     By  Anna   Bowman   Dodd, 

author  of  "Cathedral  Days."     Price,  75  cents. 

3.  Casimir  Maremma.    A  Story.     By  Sir  Arthur 

Helps,  author  of  'T.'ends  in  Council,"  "The  Story 
of  Realmah,"  etc.     Price,  75  cents. 

4.  Counter-Currents.     A  Story.     By  the  author  of 

"Justina."     Price,  75  cents. 

5.  The  Story  of  Realmah.    By  Sir  Arthur  Helps. 

Price,  75  cents. 

6.  Th3  Truth  About   Clement  Ker.     A  Novel. 

By  George  Fleming,  author  of  "  Kismet,"  "  Mirage," 
"  The  Head  of  Medusa,"  "  Vestigia,"  "  Andromeda.'* 
Price,  75  cents. 

7-8.  Romances  of  Real  Life.  First  and  Second 
Series.  Selected  and  Annotated  by  Leigh  Hunt. 
Price,  75  cents  each. 

9.  ReligiO  Medici.  A  Letter  to  a  Friend,  Christian 
Morals,  Urn-Burial,  and  other  Papers.  By  Sir 
Thomas  Browne.    Price,  75  cents. 

10.  My  Prisons:    Memoirs  of  Silvio  Pellico.     With  a 

Sketch  of  his  Life  by  Epes  Sargent.    Price,  75  cents. 

11.  Wild  Life  In  a  Southern  County.    By  Richard 

Jefferies,  author  of  "  The  Gamekeeper  at  Home," 
"  The  Amateur  Poacher,"  "  Round  about  a  Great 
Estate,"  "  The  Story  of  My  Heart  ;  My  Autobio- 
graphy." Price,  75  cents.  "  Worthy  of  a  place  beside 
White's  '  Selborjie: '' 

12.  Deirdr^.      A   Poem.     By  Robert  D.  Joyce.     A 

Romance  in  Verse  which,  orip'nally  published  anony- 
mously in  the  "  No  Name  Series,"  created  a  profound 
impression.     Price,  75  cents. 


Arthur  Helps's  Writings. 


There  are  men  and  women,  mostly  young,  with  souls  that  sometimes  weary 
of  the  serials,  who  need  nothing  so  much  as  a  persuasive  guide  to  the  study  of 
worthier  and  more  enduring  literature.  For  most  of  those  who  read  novels 
with  avidity  are  capable  of  reading  something  else  with  avidity,  if  they  only 
knew  it.  And  such  a  guide,  and  pleasantest  of  all  such  guides,  is  Arthur 
Helps.  —  Miss  H.  W.  Preston. 


COMPANIONS   OF   MY   SOLITUDE.     i6mo.    $1.50. 

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BREVIA.     Short  Essays  and  Aphorisms.     i6mo.    $1.50. 
CONVERSATIONS  on  War  and  General   Culture.     i2mo. 

THOUGHTS   UPON   GOVERNMENT.    8vo.    $2.25. 
SOCIAL   PRESSURE.     i2mo.    $2.25. 
BRASSEY'S   LIFE  AND   LABORS.    8vo.    $2.50. 
REALMAH.     A  Novel.     i6mo.     $2.00. 

"  Cheap  edition.    75  cents. 

CASIMIR   MAREMMA.    A  Novel.     i6mo.    $2.00. 

"  Cheap  edition.    75  cents. 

IVAN    DE   BIRON;  or,  The  Russian  Court  in  the  Middle  of 
Last  Century.     A  Novel.     i2mo.    $2.25. 


ROBERTS   BROTHERS,  Publishers, 
BOSTON. 


riNGS. 


sometimes  weary 
le  to  the  study  of 
who  read  novels 
dity,  if  they  only 
guides,  is  Arthur 


Including  an 
>.    $i.5o- 
,.    $1.50. 
ulture.     i2mo. 

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